


Work

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Hearts of Darkness, Ice Cream, M/M, Monster of the Week, Platonic Cuddling, Post-3A, Retail, Succubi & Incubi, Summer in San Francisco, slow build romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-3A. </p><p>When the Sheriff lost his job in Season 2, the effects were worse than Stiles realized. Determined to help his dad, Stiles heads to San Francisco for a summer job.</p><p>He runs into a certain werewolf.</p><p>(Basically: slow build Stiles/Derek in the real world)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [ElleCC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC). She is kind of amazing. You all get to read this crazy without my epic typos. 
> 
> AN2: I added an extra line to the summary because I didn't quite think the summary did the story justice. I dunno. This starts out kind of sweet then descends to being quite dark in chapter 2 once Derek is deep in the picture. Because canon Derek is anti-fluffy. 
> 
> Anyhoosies, I am putting all of my "thoughts" along with spoilery warnings in the end notes...

_Asked once what makes people happy, Sigmund Freud replied, "Work and love."_

_._

_._

_._

Once upon a time, Stiles tried to stop a big lizard and the Sheriff of Beacon Hills lost his job. Gas prices went up. A Darach thunderstorm caused Stiles to crash his jeep. The same inclement weather put a hole in the roof of his house. Not to mention the medical bills. So Stiles definitely notices when his father switches to ordering water on diner nights. The ESPN package is cancelled. Leftover vegetables begin vigilantly disappearing from the fridge. When Stiles asks, his dad says, “Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles finds the bank statements. The bills are being paid but with transfers. It’s when Stiles looks up his father’s quarterly retirement summary that he wishes he wasn't such a good gumshoe. Because there are big withdrawals, and without them, the debits would outnumber the credits in a bad way. (And yet a hundred dollars a month is still going into Stiles’s college fund.) His father is a cop on the brink of fifty. There are tax penalties for pulling this crap. The digits on the paper are not okay.

After Mom died, Stiles took on a lot of the household stuff—but his dad has always brought home the bread and butter. It’s tied up in who his dad is. He fights the bad guys. He gives good hugs and shows up at lacrosse games even if Stiles is only warming the bench. But most of all, he pays the bills. So Stiles doesn’t say, “Stop using your IRA for my car repairs.” That is not the Stilinski way. No, a week before school is out, Stiles grabs himself by the brass, crisps his resume up like bib lettuce, and hits the streets, tie swinging.

Arteaga’s Food Center is not an option. Scott and he worked as drive-through baggers when they were fifteen (got the underage permission slip and everything), but then one particularly slow day, they got twitchy and bored and raced carts. Mrs. Allen in her scooter barely made it out alive, and Stiles rear-ended the pumpkin stand. So, as he said, the grocery store is not an option.

Nor is the public library. Stiles was asked to leave when he gave away too many books during the children’s summer reading program. Those glittering eyes, too titanic in those tug boat faces, not to mention the quivering bottom lips when they’d ask, “Nine isn't enough for _Captain Underpants?_ ”

In a small town, it’s a problem to develop a reputation. The owner of the bowling alley says, “But you’re loud.” The manager at the diner just laughs. Stiles can’t do any heavy lifting because he still doesn't weigh over 150 pounds, and the bar is hiring but he’s not twenty-one.

Scott isn't much help. Firstly, he has a job. Secondly, well, the glorious high of being a “true alpha” has come with the realization that Isaac is moving in on Allison. His dad being in town is a giant buzz kill, and in the corner of his vision, Peter Hale omnipresently skulks.

The day after junior year ends, Scott and Stiles plow through pizza and marathon _Mass Effect_. There are fewer jokes between them lately, and the ones they do make are half-funny.

“How’s your heart of darkness?” Stiles asks.

“My paper got a B+.”

“Word, bro.”

Silence resumes except for button-pressing before Scott says, “My dad wants me to go to this… camp.”

“Wait. Summer camp? Like with fire songs and marshmallows? Because we’re a little old...”

“More like veterinarian stuff. I’d work with bigger animals, like _cows_ , and he thinks it will help me with my grades in science.”

“Cows?”

“At first I just told him to shove off, but…”

“You should go.” Stiles doesn't know why it comes out so firm (though, no joke, Scott’s chemistry and biology grades could use a boost).

“It would mean leaving Beacon Hills for most of the summer. The camp is out by Fresno.”

“As your friend, I’m telling you that you should go. We both could use some perspective.”

Scott’s head cocks, and he gives Stiles a curious smile. “Where are you going?”

Where is Stiles going? Beacon Hills is not awash with job opportunities for an enterprising seventeen-year-old Stilinski. However, in the city… His aunt lives in San Francisco. They’re not close or anything (his aunt is not an easy person to be close to)—but she’s always sort of seemed to tolerate the presence of her only nephew.

“I have a plan,” Stiles says firmly.

\- - -

Aunt Gwendolyn works in the records department of a big law firm. She’s always on a diet and dates a new man every five years but says, “That’s the limit before I want to cut off their dicks.” When Stiles was born, she told his mom that it sucked that he wasn't a girl. “Girls are easier. You don’t wish them dead.” That was her explanation.

Stiles calls her that evening. “Hey, Aunt Gwendolyn, so my dad has been digging into his retirement fund since that time I got him fired, so I want to chip in or at least pay for my own gas and college fund and maybe get the hell out of this town for a while because it’s sucked lately, so can I come stay with you for a few months?” Then he adds, “Please?”

There is a soft puffing crackle that Stiles is sure is Aunt Gwendolyn chewing on something crunchy, and then she says, “You’ll clean up after yourself.”

“Yep.”

“Empty Sap’s litter box once a week.”

Ew but, “Fine.”

“And I can probably get you Tuesdays and Thursdays filing for twelve dollars an hour at the firm, which is shit, but you know...”

(But _waaaaaay_ better than anything he can get in Beacon Hills as a high school seasonal.)

“Yes, awesome. I’ll pay for my own bus ticket, too.”

“I’ll buy your damn bus ticket.” She sighs. “And how’s my stupid brother?”

“Uh, okay. I’m worried about his blood pressure if I’m away.”

“You won’t be there,” she says, “so it’ll plummet.”

Stiles occasionally wonders if he’s inherited his aunt’s sense of tact.

\- - -

Stiles posts the news on Facebook. “Summer in San Fran!”

He instantly gets a comment from his old friend Harley: _Boo, you be lying._

Harley moved to San Francisco only a few weeks after Scott became a werewolf. And, well, Scott becoming a werewolf was something of a distraction. But no doubt about it, Stiles and Harley used to be tight. That’s why he’s smiling as he types: _Stileses do not lie. I need money and I’m staying with my aunt while I try and earn my keep._

Stiles's phone rings. He picks it up and Harley asks, “You already got a job?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays at my aunt’s work, but that leaves five other days of the week.”

The nice thing about Harley is that there’s no question of why he needs the money. She has two younger brothers and an older sister. Her mom was one of his dad’s deputies before she got the offer for promotion from the San Francisco PD. So Harley just says, “I work at this place in Union Square. We’re always hiring. You think you can handle retail?”

Stiles can’t believe his luck. “Customer service is my middle name.”

“That is not your middle name. I cannot pronounce either your first or middle name.”

Stiles ignores the jibe. “I get a discount on clothes too, won’t I?” This whole hanging out with werewolves thing has not been good for his t-shirt supply.

“Just show your pretty face. Plus the hair is good. I saw the picture of the new hair. You look less like a stubby orc and more like Legolas.”

From Harley this is the highest praise. They watched the extended editions of the _Lord of the Rings_ at least eight times on his couch. “You like my hair?”

A huff. “Stop fishin’.”

“Hey, I love your hair.” Harley’s hair is natural, and she used to make Scott and Stiles twist it for her while she painted her nails. The girl’s sense of command is approximate to Lydia’s.

“Shut the fuck up and text me when you get here.” 

\- - -

At the depot, his dad sighs and tells him to mind his manners.

Stiles says, “It’s Aunt Gwen,” which makes his dad sigh even harder. 

Then his dad says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re still a kid, you know. And that’s okay.”

Stiles shakes his head and hugs his dad, then promises to call every day.

The bus ride goes off without a hitch, even as Stiles keeps peering out the window at the forest’s shadows. He doesn't trust the trees. After the Nemeton, he suspects them all of secret Ent powers: that branches will morph to arms and yank him back.

Beacon Hills isn’t remotely flat, but then, San Francisco is the city of motherfucking hills. His aunt lives on the top of one in a fourth floor walk-up with no view of the bay. The first night she plunks some damn fine General Tso’s in his lap with a “here,” and then Sap, her whiny Siamese, wraps herself around Stiles’s neck as he channel surfs and reminds himself that this is important.

The next morning is business. When Stiles comes into the living room, his aunt is stretched out on her lime green chesterfield eating watermelon. It’s resting on a leopard print tray, next to a steaming cup of astringent tea—that Stiles has zero interest in. Stiles does snatch a wedge of watermelon, however.

Aunt Gwendolyn frowns, “Fine. But no more. I need the rest of it.”

The magazine open in front of her says, “Foods to Increase Your Libido.” Watermelon is featured front and center.

Stiles pauses mid-bite. “Um, big date tonight?”

“Some fucker who does docks management. Match.com puts us at sixty-eight percent. I just hope his geezer dick isn’t a turtle.”

Stiles hacks a seed into his hand.

His aunt gives his back a few pounds before she says, “You’re hanging out with your friend this afternoon?”

“She’s helping me get a job…”

Aunt Gwendolyn nods. “Condoms are in the closet.”

It makes Stiles think of that wonderful-to-awful night with Heather. The super magnum condoms and then wine mixed with blood and her blue fingers. Stiles is rather worried his virginity is cursed. But then Stiles isn’t exactly Harley’s type. He wasn’t the only one with an admiration of Lydia’s strawberry-blond genius. “I appreciate that, but we’re just friends.”

His aunt reaches past a red strata pillow to scratch between Sap’s eagerly cocked ears. “Someone should be getting laid around here.”

\- - -

Harley unleashes a crazy squeal of joy upon seeing him. They both bounce. They buy bubble tea, and she takes him on the trolley. They bounce some more. Stiles swears his heart and soul to the squishy joy of milk and tapioca balls. But really, it’s so nice to have a friend that’s human and knows nothing about all of the crazyass supernatural shit in his Stiles’s life. Someone who is just _cool_.

The bouncing stops when Stiles asks whether they’re going to submit his application before or after In-N-Out Burger. The purple straw suction-pops out of Harley’s mouth. “Wait, today?”

When Stiles nods, the purple straw is pointed like an arrow at his face. “You are not wearing that!”

Stiles looks down at his tee. “It fits well.” Or at least, better than his oversized button downs.

Harley grabs at his shirt tail. “For real, Stiles, that is _orange_. And you have Polish undertones—not tropical. It is not permitted. You look like some asshole starved a pumpkin.”

The thing is, Harley knows these things. Clothes and fashion are her thing. She actually owns a sewing machine and uses it to make vests and skirts and shit. Take for example the jacket she’s wearing: the hand-stitched graffiti roses are all embroidered by her hand. Stiles lifts the hem of his shirt morosely. He even ironed it this morning. “Maybe I was going more for winter squash?”

She drags him into H&M, makes him buy a charcoal shirt (also a new belt), and then tells him to keep the receipt so that they can return it after he doesn’t look like blanched techno geek.

In Union Square they march past the Dewey statue and underneath the palms until they’re standing at the corner where the store is. _Migratoire_ shines in sans serif green over the brass front doors.

“It’s two floors.”

“Flagship.”

Painted papier-mâché trees plug the display windows, their iron hanger twigs screaming _boutique._ Leather man-purses are expertly hung off aluminum axes on the left, while on the right, women’s scarves drape from a pine branch and a bird path is clogged with four inch heels. It looks expensive.

Stiles sort of shrinks.

Harley grabs his wrist and wiggles it like she’s trying to shake sense into him. “This is not designer—it’s mass market stuff made to look designer. It’s just a bunch of fabric crafted in China, shipped across the Pacific Ocean, and then rung up by our asses for our ten bucks an hour wages. Don’t be that impressed.”

“But it’s really pretty.” Stiles points because there is _design_. In Beacon Hills, Starbucks’s chalk-painted windows are the highest art you see. It screams— _fashionable_ —popular. It makes Stiles miss his orange shirt, because normally when he realizes he’s going to a place (i.e. high school) where no one will accept him, he walks in already not caring. He asks loud questions and wears stupid clothes, and it’s a type of armor in a way. But Harley wants him to _try_ , and Stiles has never felt so naked.

“The art people here are good. No doubt,” she agrees. Then she drags him inside.

Inside the shelves are mahogany, Persian rugs crisscross marble tiles, and beeswax candles mix cedar with lemon scent. Stiles scoots closer to a rubber tree and enjoys the shadow as he looks about, taking in the grandiosity of the place. Thankfully, the clientele looks relatively normal. The girls dress more Allison than Lydia. It’s the sort of place his mom would have gushed over. Most of the guys shopping… well, they are better dressed than those on the street, but this is San Francisco so Stiles just assumes they’re all gay and fashion savvy.

“Sam is this way.” Harvey drags him toward the back and into what appears to be the fitting room.

Dressed in a smoking jacket and topped with a newsboy cap, Sam is flipping through a catalogue and muttering, “That ass is too twiggy for leather, honey.” When Harley clears her throat, Sam looks up and positively beams with lots of tiny teeth. He tosses the catalogue over his shoulder as he widens his arms in welcome. “Harley, girl. It’s your day off. You missed me, though, didn't you? You brought me a present!” He’s pointing at the drink still in her hand.

She withdraws it protectively. “I told you I was bringing my friend by. This is Stiles.”

Sam’s hair is black curls. Those loose from his cap jiggle as his chin cocks to the side. His gaze goes appreciatively up and down on Stiles, before lapsing into a frown. “He’s not even out of high school yet, is he?”

Harley has fists on her hips. It’s her fight stance. “We’re both seniors.”

Sam drops his head back and groans. “But you’re an exception to every rule, doll, and he’s going to flit away as soon as summer is over.”

“We need good people. Stiles is solid. He can close, too. We need closers.”

Sam wrinkles his nose at her before turning to the mirror to readjust his cap. “Fine, have him fill out an application.” His eyes fix on Stiles. “We’ll train you, and then you’ll dump us at the end of the summer like they all do. I’m Sam, by the way: personal shopper, rich people’s bitch, whatever you want to call it.” He hops off the mirror’s dais to shake Stiles’s hand.

On the other side of Sam, Harley is bouncing with excitement again. And it hits him that, wow, Stiles just got another job.

Except then there’s a deeply familiar growl behind him. “Stiles.”

His ears hear _Derek,_ but his mind says no.

Because no.

Just no way in fucking hell.

Harley has stopped bouncing. She’s looking from Stiles to the _not_ -Derek Hale behind him. “Naw, Hallelujah does not know my Stiles.”

Refusing to open his eyes, Stiles prays aloud, “Dear Lord, please let there not be a scruffy, grumpy, leather-clad bastard behind me.”

Harley’s giggle is gleeful as it climbs the octaves. “So, you two do know each other.”

Stiles risks a peep just as Derek steps into the path of the mirror. Not only is he clean-shaven and wearing a very strappy (non-leather) jacket with zipper-dripping jeans, but there is a complete lack of misery in his eyes as he demands, “What—are—you— _doing here_ _?”_

He sounds so aghast. Which is not fair. On this morning’s agenda, Stiles did not write: _track down dumbass ex-alpha werewolf_. And how the hell is Derek-Misanthrope-Hale working at a clothing store? Just no. Stiles takes a big puffy breath. “Harley is my amigo from back in Beacon Hills. I told her I was in San Fran this summer—trying to make money—and she said, ‘my job needs people.’ I show up and you’re…” Stiles can’t help his own sneery, chin-bunching, fist-clenching, eyes-widening, sarcastic blurting of, “… _present_.”

It says something that Stiles doesn’t just get a blank stare. Or maybe he can just read Derek better these days. Derek is subtly sniffing the air. Doing a wolfy taste test. Stiles can tell. “And?” Derek presses with the barest hint of a growl.

“And what are _you_ doing here?” Because there is no logic in the universe that will adequately explain why Derek is working in a place where you get paid in dollars to be nice to people.

“I’m a manager.” Derek crosses his arms.

“It’s been a month since you left. How are you already a manager?”

Derek’s face stiffens. At his side, Sam helpfully interjects, “Derek had great experience.”

“Yup.” Harley makes a low chuckle. “He’s worn clothes.”

Sam clucks in protest. “Derek has got a nose for catching shoplifters.”

“’Cause his _nose_ is what you and Miss Daffy find to be his most valuable feature…”

They’re arguing. Derek takes the moment to lean in close to Stiles and whisper-growl, “Were you looking for me?”

“No.”

Derek hears no lie. This is an obvious disappointment. His brows form an evil _V_. “You can’t work here.”

Stiles bursts a breath that make his bottom lip flutter. “Why not?”

Derek blinks. “I’m here.”

Stiles swallows down the _no shit, dumbass_ and says, “I am _homo sapian_. I do not understand territorial dick waving. I need the money. I want to work with Harley. That’s it.”

“You don’t _need_ money. You’re seventeen years old for—”

“My dad lost his job for all those months—because of _me_. Then there’s the excessive gas money—chasing _local wildlife_. House needs a new roof—though _that_ , actually, would be because of your undead ex-girlfriend, if we’re being all technical.”

Derek twists away from him, jaw gritted, but when he turns back, resignation has replaced anger. He’s nodding in a weary old-man way. Without looking at Sam or Harley or even Stiles, Derek commands, “Hire him,” and then breezes off across the store.

Stunned silence blusters in his wake.

“How’d you say that you and Hallelujah knew each other?” Harley’s pointer finger ticks-and-tocks between Stiles and Derek’s retreating back.

Stiles isn’t sure what just happened. “Uh, he used to live in Beacon Hills.”

\- - -

His training at Migratoire doesn’t start until the weekend.

In the meantime, filing is boring. Booooring. The first day of training isn’t so bad. But halfway through the second, Stiles realizes that if not for Aderall, he would not be surviving the summer. Because Stiles is the messenger boy. He gets a case number, and then he goes and finds the corresponding file. He doesn’t even get to deliver the file. That’s someone else’s job (whose name is Joel—he is the “cart man”). Sometimes when the file isn’t in the back where it’s supposed to be, Stiles logs a Missing File Report. Sometimes, Stiles has to order stuff from offsite. Then at the end of the day, it’s positively riveting when Stiles gets to put all the records back.

Stiles reminds himself that he is getting paid (more than Scott makes, actually) to do this. Plus, he gets to listen to music and podcasts or whatever as long as the big boss isn’t around (Joel doesn’t care).

On Friday, Stiles walks past an ice cream shop at the corner of his aunt’s block and sees the sign that reads “Hiring” in glued-on yellow sparkle letters. Stiles stands there and thinks about it. Allegedly, Migratoire only needs him to work nights, six to close. That means he has three weekday afternoons free, plus the weekends. Stiles has never worked two jobs before, much less three, but he doesn’t have anything else to do this summer, and if it means never having to ask his dad for gas money again, then it’s so worth it.

Also, ice cream.

Stiles politely inquires inside. The interior has as much sparkle as the sign, and lilies and jade plants jam the window sills. The overhead sign properly proclaims, “Whole, full-fat milk and cream from pastured cows! Organic! No preservatives! None of that High Fructose Stuff!” The owner, a woman named Mina with sugar-cookie cheeks and gumdrop eyes, asks, “Are you good with kids?”

Stiles confesses that he gave away free books at the Summer Library program. Um, because he’s honest like that. (And never say he doesn’t have a problem with over-sharing.)

But unlike Helena the Cruel at the Beacon Hills Public Library, Mina laughs and says, “You can give out samples.” She swirls a rainbow cup of mini plastic spoons, and it looks just like a lollipop. “Just no cones. Though, sometimes I add extra chippies, especially when the little ones promise to clean up any drippies.”

Stiles agrees this might work.

When Stiles calls to tell his dad the good news, he gets a, “Three jobs! Really, Stiles?” followed by, “Derek Hale—what?” and then, “I’m proud of you?” and “Hoard some ice cream for your old man. I’m losing weight from all the worry.”

Stiles threatens to mail a package of celery.

\- - -

To his surprise, Stiles manages working fifty to sixty hours a week pretty okay. Ice cream days are awesome. His favorite flavor is Insane Plantain (don’t judge—the salty nuts do something magical), and even if his wrist is sore by day end, the kids are adorable, and Stiles is a master at choosing their favorite flavors.

Migratoire is a different world, but Harley is there. His co-workers are cool. And let’s be real, between the olfactory brew of the candles and the aesthetic feel-so-goodness, the place has fab feng-shui.

(Even if Derek is stalking about, pointedly ignoring Stiles.)

The first week or so, they keep him on the register, and it’s not bad at all. He likes seeing what people buy. Girls who raid the store’s dresses always seem to be going to a wedding, so Stiles hears predictions about whether or not the marriage will last—whether or not the food will be hors de ouvres _plus_ or a real meal—and how the interfaith aspect of the ceremony is being handled. It always shocks him who drops a thousand dollars on a purchase like it’s nothing (his first is a woman wearing cut off yoga pants and Birkenstocks, who had enormous knitting needles poking out of her bag) and who comes out of the sale room with five items for under a hundred dollars (115 pounds of blond highlights and French manicure and not a single damn wrinkle distressing her white sundress).

Then there’s the men. It’s not overt, but there’s flirting. Lots of it. “I look like a pig face with aviators,” one guy says (even as he buys them)—and when Stiles argues, the man says, “Hush it, cheekbones.” Another guy, Irish accent with mint eyes, keeps stopping Stiles from totaling the order as he asks about every single one of the triple-milled vegetable soaps that are on the side of his register.

“He was hoping you were going to write your number down on the receipt,” Harley says after the guy has left.

Stiles blusters and jabs his finger down at his register. “I’m at work.”

“Which is why he didn’t straight up ask you.” She picks up a jacket to pin it with a hard tag.

Stiles ponders this. “Do I seem gay?”

Harley shakes her head. “Not overtly.”

“Then why?”

“Boo, it’s ‘cause you scream _virgin_ —and _cute_.”

Stiles does not seethe. Much. Luckily, there are more customers. It’s ten minutes from the end of shift when a manager (she must be, anyway, because she has a walkie and the shift clipboard) comes up to him, and says, “Stiles, right? I’m Daphne.”

She is beeeyoootiful. And yet Stiles finds himself stepping back against his hanger caddy. There’s a rising pain in his chest—as if his heart is being squeezed—and somehow Stiles just knows she isn’t completely human. “Hey.”

She doesn’t say anything weird, just explains that she’s the store manager (—) and how is his training (?) and he should come back next summer too (!) and would he be okay to train for size running this next hour (?) if that’s okay (of course) … And then she lightly adds in, like it’s an afterthought (it’s not): “So, you knew Derek from before.”

Stiles’s pulse does a giant gong clatter. His instincts say: scrounge a bat. “Yeah, we’re both from Beacon Hills.”

“Great. I’ll have him train you,” she says, and then there’s this weird thing she does, like she’s pinning Stiles with her smile. Her upper lip almost looks like it’s throbbing.

“Um, anything else?”

Daphne’s answering laugh is way too yellow smiley face. “We encourage all new employees to meet with Sam whenever they have the chance. You know, to use your discount.”

Stiles translates this as: _your clothes suck and you’re going to fix them when you’re not on the clock._

“As soon as I get that first paycheck.” Stiles forces a laugh and fires off double guns with his fingers.

Daphne’s eyes narrow in a deeply condescending way.

Once she’s gone, Harley pokes him and says, “That be Daffy—I mean, Daphne. Ice, huh?”

“I don’t like her.”

“Because she thought you was cute, too.” Harley makes claw fingers and tickles them into Stiles’s shoulder.

He leans back, flicking her fingers away. “I am going to start lifting weights.” When Harley rolls her eyes, Stiles adds, “Big ones.”

**\- - -**

When they call the hour, Stiles goes to find Derek. He’s in one of the chairs in the fitting room. Sam is holding a pile of belts while Derek scowls. A woman, bottle redhead in an emerald dress, is cracking a belt in the air as she smiles at the mirror. “Do we like the knotted one?” she is asking.

Sam shakes his head. “I think it might be too wide. Kind of makes you look like a rancher.”

This time the woman whirls the loop like a lasso. “Maybe I like the country girl look,” she teases.

“Let’s see the yellow one,” Sam suggests. Stiles doesn’t blame him: the knotted belt looks like an inner tube.

“Derek, which one do you like?” she asks.

“None. The belts don’t work. Buy the red dress with the long feather thingies.” As Derek is pointing at his own ears, Stiles assumes he means earrings. “And the white shirt looks good with the hat and the long skirt—just wear a different bra and leave your hair down.”

The woman, after some flirtatious hemming and hawing, does exactly what Derek says.

As Sam escorts her to the register, Derek gathers the belts and shoves them at Stiles. “Size running is pretty simple. If someone is in the fitting room and the item they’re trying on doesn’t fit, you go and get them the size they want. Check the floor first, then go into back stock. Where’s your walkie?”

“Walkies scare me,” Stiles confesses.

“Walkies scare you,” Derek repeats, brows bunched.

“But werewolves don’t.” Stiles feels like this should earn him some cred.

“Get a walkie from behind the register. I’ll meet you by the belts.”

Stiles goes and gets a walkie. He has to play with the volume, and the earpiece won’t stay the fuck on, but eventually he’s got it clipped in place, and then he can adjust the volume so that he hears the store’s chatter. He does the whole test thing. “Walkie check.”

Harvey calls back, “Mayday, mayday, Stiles is on the walkie.”

“I’ve been on the walkie before.” For two hours when he was in a fitting room. But he didn’t really use it then…

“Stiles,” Derek mikes, “get over by the belts.”

“Over. Commmming.” Stiles jogs out onto the floor.

From the register, he hears Harley snort, because Harley’s mind is always in the gutter.

Derek intercepts Stiles before Stiles is five steps away from cash wrap. “We need to find that mint chambray in a size eight.”

“What’s chambray?”

“It’s cotton, like a soft denim. It often comes in jeans colors.”

“I thought you said it was mint?”

“The fabric is denim-like. Do you know anything?”

“Hey, hold up. I heard you back there. You called the earrings ‘feather thingies.’”

Derek takes a long, slow breath. “This way.”

The shirt is hung to the side of the fit-a-cauldron fireplace. There is no size eight.

“Back stock.” Derek zips toward the back door where he enters a code. He tells Stiles, but two steps inside, Stiles knows if he wants that code again, he’s going to have to walkie.

They find the shirt amid the blouses. “Fitting room pick up.”

“Go for Sam.”

“Stiles is bringing down that shirt.”

“Thank you, Stiles.”

“Then come right back here,” Derek says, off-mike. “You need to understand what is where.”

Stiles goes and brings the shirt to the fitting room before zipping right back, only to stop at the door, “Um, so the door code to back stock…?”

Derek throws open the door. “I said hit the 3 and 5 at the same time, then 1.”

Stiles salutes. “3-5, then one 1.”

Derek nods then walks down the aisle of clothes. “It should be obvious, but we keep the women’s on the west and north walls and the men’s on the east. Lately, we’ve been doing sale on the south, but if Back of House changes their mind, then sale might go back to a rack in the customer care room. Cut-and-sews are over here. Those are your basic cotton shirts. We label those by class.” Derek points at the number above the subtitle. There are brands labeled, too, but the stickers are pretty torn up, so Stiles wonders if they’re remotely accurate.

Then Derek is saying something about blouses and swimsuit covers, and Stiles realizes that they’re all alone and they’re talking like Derek doesn’t even know him, like Stiles doesn’t even know Derek, like they haven’t been stuck in a swimming pool together for hours or they haven’t dealt with his horrible uncle. The question, therefore, pops right out of his mouth. “So. How are you?”

Derek freezes. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his eyes fall to his shoes. “I’m fine.”

“Has being in the city helped?”

Derek points at the shelf full of skirts and says, “Skirts.”

“How’s Cora?”

This time Derek looks up at him. “She’s good. Taking classes. She likes that I work here. She likes the clothes.” Brows collapsed, Derek adds, “She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“She smelled you on me.”

“Huh. So she smelled my honey sweet goodness and—”

“Plantains and milk,” Derek corrects him. “And paper, sometimes.”

This makes Stiles laugh. “Yeah, the ice cream shop, I work there a few days a week. I’m also helping my aunt out at her work, paper pushing.”

From the shelf, Derek grabs a shirt that’s all cockeyed and refolds it. “I’m sorry about your dad’s job. Is your jeep here?”

It takes Stiles a minute to recover from the fact that Derek Hale used the word “sorry” in a sentence. Still, he smiles as he says, “Nah, left it in Beacon.”

Derek gently lays the shirt neatly in the pile, before rubber-banding it into a bundle. “If it was here, I could have taken a look. I’m not bad with cars.”

Stiles is both touched and annoyed. “I didn’t mean what I said last week. The whole storm and Darach-Jennifer thing. It’s not your fault.”

Derek looks at him. Just looks. It’s the same look he gave Stiles in the back of the police cruiser when Stiles was unwittingly accusing Derek of being his sister’s murderer. The look is so stern, like Derek’s guilt is burned into his skin, as if any specks of innocence or forgiveness that manage to touch him will wash away with the next rain.

“I’m glad you’re here, doing your own thing. I’m glad you have Cora with you. Being away can be good sometimes,” Stiles says.

Derek bends his head back so he can adjust his earpiece. “I’m going to show you where we keep the pants.”


	2. Chapter 2

There is a birthday party. Stiles manages to get six four year olds to put on bibs. “Because all the cool kids are wearing them,” he says, as he ties one on his own neck. Nobody wants any flavor that isn’t purple (Blackberry Hysteria) or pink (Cherry Chump, Rose Hipster, Strawberry Bright). Stiles has just about convinced the birthday girl that Insane Plantain is the be-all-end-all when Cora Hale enters through the front door with a jingle of bells.

Stiles gives up on the Plantain, hands small Susie the strawberry, and then rings up the order so that her mother can pay.

Then he has Cora Hale, elbows on top the glass, peering into his ice cream case. She’s wearing a gray beanie with a frosted hoodie that Stiles knows just arrived at Migratoire. She looks comfortable and definitely interested in ice cream. “Okay, I’ll bite. Give me the plantain. But I want the Fudge Grudge for comparison.”

Stiles dips for both samples. Cora tastes one, then the other. She makes happy sounds of approval with each, and then shoves the remainders in her mouth at the same time. With pink spoons for fangs, she says, “Mmmm ah like em bote.”

Stiles holds up a trash dish, just like he does for the four year olds.

Cora plucks out the pink spoons and drops them in. “I want those both in a cone.”

“That’s not why you came,” Stiles says as he scoops her two flavors.

“True, but now it’s my reason for existing.”

Stiles snorts. “I can’t give them to you for free”—because the library incident shall not repeat—“but I can swing you a discount.”

Cora waves it off. “Charge me whatever.”

Stiles rings her up. Cora watches him intently the whole time. “You look good.”

Stiles holds up his plastic bib.

Cora laughs. She is doing better, he thinks. Derek, on the other hand…

On cue, Cora says, “So my brother, you work with him.”

“That happened by chance.”

“He said as much.” She take another double lick of ice cream. “I’m worried about him.”

“Huh. With his giving up his alpha powers, being forced to stick his claws in Boyd, and having ugh-sex with a creature of the undead, I mean, why would you, as his sister, do that, the whole, you know, worry thing?”

Cora crunches on the edge of the cone and chews loudly. “I think you should come over to our place.”

“Um, your brother doesn’t like me.”

“Maybe I like you.” She tilts her cone at the perfect angle, and the last of the top bulb gets beheaded. “Is there anything weird at work?”

“Besides middle aged women leering at him?”

Cora frowns. “When are you next off?”

“Like never.” Because working three jobs is a thing.

“Figure out a date. Better yet, I’ll make Derek give you a night off.” She points at the case. “Pick a flavor for my brother.”

Stiles chooses Insane Plantain and gives him Pistachio Mustachio on the side.

\- - -

Stiles eats take-out with his aunt before his night shifts. Without fail, there is watermelon. When he points this out, she says, “It’s in season.” Lunchtimes are Chipotle or In-n-Out or the salad bar at Whole Foods. On splurge days, he gets sushi. Whenever they can, he and Harley meet up to guzzle gallons of bubble tea and snack on dumplings.

Even though Stiles isn’t in college yet, living on his own like this makes him feel like an adult. Like, it might suck in some ways, but he can handle some responsibility. He calls his dad once or twice day. He gets a text from Scott that says, _Bad reception but I helped deliver a baby cow today_.

It’s the Saturday after Cora’s ice cream visit that Derek says, “Help me with runs.” And when they’re over by the rack, Derek hands Stiles a basket of folds. “I liked the plantain, thank you.”

“It’s amazing right? We sprinkle salt on the top. Or at least I do.”

“The pistachio was gross.”

“Not up to your lupine taste buds?”

“Cora said you gave her fudge.”

“She asked for the Fudge Grudge. I personally think that the Pistachio Mustachio is a way superior combination for those with advanced palates.”

Derek stares at the purple chandelier hanging overhead. “Daphne says we need to dress you.”

Stiles kind of wants to ask Derek about her. If she smells off. But Stiles is also aware that she is Derek’s boss and that Derek and Cora came to San Francisco to get away from the magical zoo menagerie in Beacon Hills, so he says, “Uh, I got my paycheck but between lunches and crap—even with the discount—it’s—”

“This way.” Derek drags him along to the south of back stock where sale overflow is.

“Are you picking out clothes for me?” Stiles asks when Derek starts chucking shirts and jackets and pants into a basket.

“These just got marked down—a second time.”

Stiles notices that there are some large piles in the sale section, and Derek is pulling from none of them. He keeps reaching behind those piles to pull out single items. It’s almost like they were _stowed_ back there. And when Stiles reaches into the basket, yup, they’re all in his size or pretty damn close to it. “You totally want to help me look pretty. And I’m sure this is against the rules. You’re violating LP policy—all for me.”

Derek snatches the basket away from him, and says, “Fitting room.”

Sam is there, lying in wait, as if he and Derek plotted this.

Stiles comes out of the fitting room rubbing his own arm because the fabric is so silky. “Feels niiiice, like I want to sleep on myself.”

Sam turns to Derek, who shakes his head. “Agreed. Sweetie—the neck is all wonky. Your collarbones are too delicate, flat-out. And switch to the black pants.”

Stiles mournfully stops caressing the sleeve to snarl, “You are so much nicer to the women.”

He goes and puts on another shirt. It’s black with shiny buttons. When he emerges, Sam gives him a double thumbs up, and Derek simply nods.

Sam says, “Fit is king. You’re buying that.”

“It’s like, black.”

This is when Harley sticks her head around the corner. “Do not let him wear orange. We already had that conversation. And, Stiles, that shirt makes your eyelashes look like tiny hot little rodeo whips—just saying.” She leaves.

Stiles looks at the markdown. From $299.00 to $39.00 and he gets 30% off on sale. Score.

By the time he’s done, there’s the consensus on a pair of gray pants, a distressed pair of jeans. Add to that a nice belt, a camel-colored Henley, a v-neck, and the black shirt. And his total is under a hundred dollars. Which is sort of amazingly awesome.

“Is that too much?” Derek asks. “We can keep some in the hold closet until your next paycheck.”

Which is so against the rules. “I’m good for it. _Seriously_. Also, I’m bringing you Caramel Winter one of these days.”

“I like caramel,” Derek agrees.

\- - -

It’s on the next Monday, when Harley has hauled her butt over to his side of town, that Cora shows up. “Oh, for real, you’re Hallelujah's little sister?” Stiles doesn’t miss that Harley is looking at Cora appreciatively.

“That’s Cora. Cora this is Harley. She works with Derek and me. She used to live in Beacon Hills.”

If Cora notices Harley’s reaction—or smells it with her wolfy sense—she doesn’t let on. “What flavor is that?” She leans over Harley’s ice cream so that her hair falls forward, right and left tips draping against the edge of the table.

“Merry Mint and Cookie Rookie—try some.”

Cora tries a whole lot.

“Boo, you’re gonna have to get me another bowl. Hallelujah’s sister has a dairy problem.”

Cora points at the case. “I want one of these, plus what I had last time.” She turns to Stiles. “I heard you had the night off.”

“I get off at eight here, so sort of.” He looks at Harley. “You can join us.”

“Our plan is watching _Up_ , because it’s funny to watch Stiles snot-sob for fifty minutes.” Harley is shaking her head.

“You cry?” Cora asks him, nostril arched.

“It reminds me of my parents. It’s a beautiful movie. I _love_ it.”

“I’ve never seen it,” she says warily.

Stiles brings his aunt home an appropriately named pint of Watermelon Heaven. He brings a second of Caramel Winter for Cora to take home to Derek later, then he, Harley, and Cora pile on her couch. Sap hisses at Cora and runs to Aunt Gwen’s room as Stiles gets the DVD in the player.

The movie begins. The couple falls in love. There is a scrapbook with big life goals and a map for great adventure—and then the lovely old woman fucking _dies_ , like she does every single time. Cora cries even harder than Stiles. “It’s—just—the—old people love plus the little kiddies,” she blubbers.

Stiles nods tearfully while Harley complains, “You two saps, the damn movie not only has balloons in it but there are puppies obsessed with squirrels and steampunk air fights.”

Cora draws Stiles in for what is definitely, without a doubt, a pack cuddle. Seeing Harley’s confused expression, Stiles says, “This is a thing but not the thing that you’re thinking. Cora likes to cuddle. You can join.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Harley snuggles in, too.

\- - -

The next day Stiles gets assigned to mark-downs with Derek and this girl named Jen, who doesn’t talk much but fires her tape gun maleficently down the rows of tags.

“So how does the Caramel Winter compare?” Stiles asks as Derek sets a bundle of skirts in front of him to gun.

A smile creeps onto the corner of Derek’s mouth. “Good—they’re all good. No weird chemicals. But I like the Plantain better.”

Stiles nods happily. “‘Cause it’s the best.”

“Those are $99.95.” Derek points at the next stack, and Stiles adjusts his gun.

“Not really much of a sale.”

“It’s over forty percent off.”

“Who buys this”—Stiles holds up the red-and-white striped a-line skirt—“for over two hundred bucks?”

“The same people who eat Candy Cane Lane.”

Candy Cane Lane is a flavor at Stiles’s shop. He has never told Derek of this flavor. There is only one conclusion to be made from this. “You looked up my shop.”

“I wanted to see what the other flavors were.”

“Did you pick a favorite?”

“Poodle Strudel.”

Stiles laughs outright. “That’s what old men order.”

“Because it has cinnamon and hazelnut. It sounded good.”

“You should come with your sister to visit me in the actual shop. That way you can try all the flavors. We can even have another movie night.”

Derek looks at him askance. “Cora said you cried.”

“She cried harder.”

Derek doesn’t look like he believes this. “Maybe.”

“Seriously. You should visit. It’d be nice.”

Derek almost smiles. “I thought you were staying with your aunt.”

“She’s all right.” Stiles means that. “She’s never been a super happy person but she does her best. Also, there’s the watermelon.”

“Why is the watermelon important?”

“She thinks it improves her libido. It’s everywhere.”

“Her libido?” Derek’s eyes are wide.

He looks so indignant. To snap him out of it, Stiles tags him with the gun. A loud click and there’s a red and white sticker on Derek’s bicep. “The watermelon,” Stiles says cheerfully.

Derek looks from the $99.95 sticker on his arm to Stiles—and back again. “I’m your boss, you know.”

Stiles comically gapes. “What? It’s not bad. I made you sort of expensive.”

Derek’s brows furrow, and his eyes go the gun in Stiles’s hands. Stiles throws himself back as Derek goes for it—a bunch of tanks crash down and bonk his shoulder. Stiles evades Derek’s next swipe by launching one of the bundles at him. It only half-works because Derek’s hand gets trapped in the rubber band.

Stiles clicks a few stickers on Derek’s leg. “Do you not know anything about gun safety?" Derek snaps the rubber band. Tank tops helicopter. “You do not mess with”—Stiles shields himself with the candy cane skirt stack—“a guy holding a loaded gun.”

Derek pins Stiles’s wrist with his elbow, then Stiles’s arms overhead. Stiles is squirming with, “No, no, nos!” and laughing hysterically—as Derek takes the gun away.

One-by-one he guns red-inked stickers onto Stiles’s cheeks with scraping, loud clicks.

“Stooooohp it, you fucker. No struedeling poodle pudding for you.”

Derek tacks a sticker on the end of Stiles’s nose for good measure.

“It’s no fair. You’re like”—supernaturally—“stronger than me.”

Derek pops a sticker onto his chin, and Stiles tries to wiggle it off until he sees Derek’s expression. Derek’s smile is this shimmering spectacle, like freshly unearthed ore. There’s something both so dusty and raw about it. It makes Stiles wonder if he’s ever even really seen it before.

Behind them, a throat clears. They look up to see Jen, who holds a pile of leather and lace minis. “I finished my set,” she says reproachfully. But she’s not the one who cleared her throat.

At her side, blonde and utterly queen-like, is Daphne, who has a hand on her hip and a wry slant to her mouth. “Boys, is that the best way to use company resources?”

Derek’s hands are off Stiles in a second. “We’ll be finished on time.”

As Daphne leaves, Stiles has that cold, clogged feeling again. His heart slows down before racing like it’s being chased. He think about what it means as he peels the stickers off his face.

\- - -

So Derek does that thing where he acts like a human being and then retreats. And since Derek controls who goes where each shift, this becomes obvious fast. Stiles is in the fitting rooms only when Derek is on the east side as Women’s wear MOD. He does not size run or handle back of the house orders. His other free hours are at cash wrap. Which gets old.

But work isn’t the place to hunt Derek down. Stiles decides to take Cora up on her offer. She, of course, texts him the address, and he arrives, armed with the double threat of Poodle Strudel ice cream and Harley, who has a selection of 80’s movies in her satchel.

Derek opens the door, bewildered, shirtless and in sweatpants, and Stiles rolls his eyes a lot (in part to avoid looking at Derek), while Harley mutters, “And you wonder why I named him motherfucking Hallelujah. I’m mostly into girls, and that shit”—she pokes Derek in the abs as she pushes past him—“is just unfair. “ Then she thrusts the very same finger under his nose. “Lucky your sister is pretty.”

Derek’s consternation as he watches Harley saunter into his living room is pretty damn funny. “Cora planned this.”

“I brought it.” Stiles holds up the Poodle Strudel pint, and then he tries to skirt past the werewolf.

Derek blocks him, holding out an open palm. There is sniff-sniff action going on as Derek’s gaze remains fixed on the ice cream.

When Stiles tucks it behind his back, Derek’s eyes flash blue and his fingers extend to claws.

“You look on the verge of puppy drool.”

Stiles gets a snarl. The claws beckon.

“Fine!” Stiles slams the pint into Derek’s hand. “But we use words to negotiate.”

Derek opens the pint right then and there to dig a claw in. He licks it, smacking his lips as his fang tips retract. He’s looking smug as he says, “Why are you really here?”

“Because you were ignoring me again.”

Derek steps back, snorting. “That’s impossible to do.”

“Exactly.” Then Stiles finally shoves past Derek to head into the living room. “Hey, where’s your couch?”

Stretched out on the floor, across at least four puffy cushions is Harley, who is waving her arms like a snow angel. “I need to get some of these.”

“We weren’t sure how long we were planning to stay,” Cora says as she comes into the room. She hands a cider (definitely hard) to Harley, and well, Stiles only quirks his brow a little.

Cora stopped by the store the other week when Stiles wasn’t there. Harley was, though. Apparently, they “talked.” Said talk has made it so that Harley’s been walking on sunshine the whole week.

And the fact that Cora says, “I’m going to show Harley something in my room,” means nothing. Nothing.

Stiles and Derek are left alone. Well, with the ice cream.

“We need a spoon,” Stiles declares, given that Derek is digging another claw into the pint.

\- - -

Stiles gets, like, two bites. Derek is an aggressive Poodle Strudel eater. The moment Stiles gets a little bit of brain freeze, Derek goes to town, and then Stiles is whining and there are threats, but mostly, the bottom of the ice cream container is just empty, and the only sign it was ever full is the werewolf licking his chops on the opposite floor cushion.

“So that’s your favorite.”

“Better than plantain.”

“Dogs eat their own shit. Your palate is not to be trusted.”

Derek licks his finger and sort of chortles. It’s weirdly boyish coming from him—what’s less boyish is the way he freezes. Eyes daggering toward Cora’s room. “I want to turn on some music,” he says.

“I figured that was going to happen,” Stiles grumbles.

Derek’s eye seems to have developed a tick. “We can go in my room to listen—and shut the door.”

As Stiles follows him, he says, “This is the one time in my life where I am glad that firstly I do not have werewolf senses and secondly that I do not have a kid sister.”

“Just shut up for a moment,” Derek says while he fumbles with his iPhone and shoves it into the dock.

Derek’s room is empty except for a mattress and an overflowing suitcase. In the corners there are assorted piles of books and crap. Therefore, Stiles’s only choice is to fall back on the mattress. It’s quite springy. Stiles sprawls happily.

Derek meanwhile collapses into a squat, rubbing his temples, as Bob Marley and Jamaican rhythms fill the room. “I have never shared a home with walls so thin.” And then he looks up, sees Stiles, and asks, “Why are you on my bed?”

Stiles is so chill it’s not funny. “Comfy.”

What Stiles does not expect is for Derek to push him over—then settle down at his side.

“You wolves are so cuddly.”

Derek rolls his eyes but then grimaces. “My family used to be.”

“Even Peter?”

Derek nods slowly. “Actually, yeah.”

Oh. “My mom was a hugger. My dad still is, but my mom—yeah, cuddle machine.”

Derek’s hand slides around Stiles’s head. He wraps his hand around his shoulder with such hesitation, like he’s expecting Stiles to recoil. It take him a long moment to relax and just let his fingers sit. “It’s funny what you miss.”

“I miss her laugh.”

Derek eyes widen with understanding, and it looks as if he’s compiling his own endless list.

“Hey, how are you?” Stiles asks, and he puts all the meaning in his eyes, because he can see the pain. No matter that Derek is managing a full time job and living with his sister and he’s chilling in his bedroom where Bob is saying “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” there’s so much unhappiness.

Derek’s grip on his neck tightens. “I’m here.”

“You think about what happened? Before you left?”

Derek doesn’t answer him at first. For a minute, he closes his eyes like he’s just listening to the song. His voice, when he speaks, is barely audible over the speakers. “I’m glad I saved Cora. I’m glad Deucalion didn’t win. That… the Darach… didn’t. Mostly, though, I’m glad I have Cora. That’s the only thing.”

“Do you miss the alpha business?”

“No.” Firm. “How’s Scott?”

So they talk about Scott. It’s no surprise that Derek thinks he needs to get over Allison.

Derek’s thumb rubs circles into Stiles’s neck as he says, “It’s the problem with your first love. You’re not fair to yourself or the other person. I’m not sure you can be.”

“You’re talking about Paige.”

Derek’s hand stills but doesn’t pull away. “Cora told you.”

Peter, actually, but that’s not much better. “Not your fault.”

Derek sucks in his cheeks. “It’s one of those things I’ve learned. Whatever I touch dies.”

“Hey, King Midas, you notice we’re kind of cuddling?”

“And you’re gold,” Derek answers with no energy.

Stiles props up on his elbow to glare at Derek. In the background, “Roots Rock Reggae” begins playing, and Stiles uses the tempo to poke Derek’s stupid golden torso in a bad rhythm. “I’m Stiles. I’m immune.”

“You’re really not,” Derek says, and there’s an edge to his voice.

Stiles looks down where his hands are touching, close to the dip in Derek’s hip. And um, there’s no doubt that Derek is a man. A hot, occasionally hairy, man. It’s something that Stiles has needed to keep a pretty damn big mental lid on. One unrequited crush is enough, thank you very much. And Stiles also doesn’t like the way Derek’s gaze has gone hard, like he’s expecting something from Stiles. Like Stiles’s fingers on Derek’s hip will turn into claws.

It’s, um, scary in a way, so Stiles sits up, drawing his own hands into his lap. Derek’s expression slowly shifts and is ultimately cut away when Stiles belts, “Listen to the Reggae Music!” And well, then he’s bopping his fingers and singing along with Bob. His fingers are instruments of soul and nothing more.

Derek shakes his head and watches Stiles. When Stiles flops down next to him, Derek’s hand returns to massaging his neck. Stiles leans into the press.

“You don’t have a deadly golden touch. You just have really sharp teeth and bad judgment.”

“Says the sixteen year old.”

“Seventeen last month.”

They continue to lie there. Eventually, Derek says, “I think they’re done.”

“You totally just jinxed it.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Bob is in competition again.

\- - -

Tuesday nights are long because Stiles has already spent hours in the paper dungeon, so closing at Migratoire takes forever. It’s not even that bad. Stiles always folds. Harley hangs. They put the clothes in size order, then tie the ties and roll the cuffs, that sort of thing. They make everything super spruced for the morning.

There are always arguments over music. Harley is a primary instigator. “If you put on Beyonce again—I’m gonna—” With an up and down fist and a karate chop, she imitates the chopping of a dick.

Finn, who is an actor, waves his finger. “What then? _Macklemore_ _?_ ”

“I’d listen to Bieber, right now. Just no more Beyonce. We have listened to that ho every single goddamn night this week.”

“Disney music,” Finn says to Roger, also an actor. They both nod.

Harley says, “Whatever,” like she doesn’t care, but Stiles knows she secretly loves that shit.

Therefore, Stiles and company close the store to such sweet songs as “Kiss the Girl” and “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” and they’re two people short so it’s past midnight when they finally head upstairs. Except that Harley, passing a stack on the left, says, “Stiles fix that stack, purty please, before Hallelujah puts on his Satan face. ‘Cause the pile is ugly. You know it is.”

Stiles was not the one who folded that stack. The new girl did, but Harley is right. He'll get harangued if anyone sees it, so he settles down to fix the fuckery and make the stack look like “cake.” That’s why he’s the last one out of the break room after clocking out. He’s looking for Derek, because they’ve been cool lately, and Derek normally walks out with him, so when he steps into the office—and there is no Derek, Stiles goes and looks in back stock.

There’s nobody in the main section. But down the stairs where the household furnishings are kept, the door to the storage closet is open and there are sounds.

Stiles almost falls downs the last stair as he processes what he’s hearing: heavy breathing, a moan, the creaking of wood. For a second, Stiles thinks someone is being hurt, but then as he peers around the edge, he realizes how wrong he was.

That’s Daphne. Long and fairy-legged Daphne. She’s hiked up on the boxes and thrust backward with her skirt flipped back over her breasts, and there’s—Stiles can’t breathe—that’s Derek. It’s Derek’s hands that leverage those legs over his shoulders, and it’s his hips that jerk and yank moans from Daphne as his dick jabs in and out, and oh god, he is _fucking_ her.

Stiles wants to leave, but his heart just freezes.

That’s when he sees the smoke. It comes out of Daphne’s pores in silk threads that latch onto Derek’s skin like a thousand tiny hooks. Lilliputian but way more sinister. Stiles watches as Derek begins to lose control. His wolf erupts—eyes flashing blue, canines extending—and for a second, Stiles doesn’t know who to be afraid for.

But Daphne’s hips keep pumping. Her fingers scratch at Derek’s hirsute chest and arms like she expects the fur. Derek’s fingers press blue-white lines into the flushed muscles of her ass, and he coughs-chokes. His face is buried in her swan neck as she brightens with yellow luminescence.

Then it’s over.

Stiles scrambles backward. He rolls himself into one of the open alleys amid the shelves of coffee mugs and splatter-painted plant pots to crouch with his head in his lap.

As Derek passes by, Stiles knows that he should be able to smell him. Stiles knows Derek must hear his breathing.

Derek doesn’t stop.

Daphne is the one who appears at the head of the alley. Her hands fit over the shelves on either side, and she rolls her hips like she’s getting a hula-hoop started. Stiles hates that she makes the move graceful. Then she puts a finger to her lips, and goes, “Shhhhh.” Her lips pucker; she blows a kiss, and fluffs her hair as her heels click-click away.

When Stiles has his breath again, he runs.

\- - -

Stiles doesn’t even go home. He marches to the nearest coffee shop that’s open—the Java Pot a few blocks over that is mashed right between one of the eponymous San Francisco gay clubs and a never-closing Chinese take-out. Stiles flips open his laptop and starts researching.

Also, he Skypes Lydia, who happens to be awake.

She promises not to tell, and then he lets her bitch about her drama with Jackson and Aidan while he sorts through the internet, and she translates old Latin, so that by two a.m., when Stiles says, “Succubus,” into his computer’s mike, Lydia is in agreement.

Stiles considers going to his aunt’s—but no. Just no. Stiles waits twenty fucking minutes for the right bus, and then he’s knocking on the door of Cora and Derek Hale.

Derek answers in sweatpants and a very grumpy face. Fortunately, this time he’s wearing a shirt and appears to be freshly showered.

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

Stiles shakes his fist, grits his teeth, and hiss-fizzles his pissed-off-ed-ness through his nostrils. “Succubus, really? Really?”

“Stiles.” This time Derek is looking over his shoulder. Oh, because he doesn’t want his sister to hear.

“We are talking right now. You don’t get to avoid this.” Stiles stomps both feet.

Derek drags him into his room where there is more Bob coming from the iPhone dock. Derek mutters, “Neighbors,” under his breath.

Stiles doesn’t sit or flop or do any of the happy Stiles activities that he likes to participate in. “Just—what is it with you and evil women? And—admittedly—yeah—they’re super hot—on the surface—but what is with you only wetting your cock in women who want to destroy you? It is not _okay._ ”

Derek turns up his music. Bob is starting to hurt Stiles’s ear drums. “You have to work tomorrow.” He sits down on his mattress and looks up at Stiles. His eyes look raw, too red.

Stiles squats down. Hands on Derek’s knees for balance, he looks, says, “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You can’t stop me from telling Cora. What you’re seeing here—it’s only stage one of the Stilinski intervention. My punches accomplish nothing—your sister’s, on the other hand—”

“—it’s just safer with me—okay?” Derek’s eyes are closed.

“What? Explain? What is safer?”

“Sex is not a fun thing for her to do—she needs the energy. But with me, it’s safer. She can’t hurt me. I can handle it.”

“Being drained?” When Derek doesn’t meet Stiles eyes, Stiles says, “She doesn’t need a werewolf. She could sip from humans. Unless she likes killing them. Have you thought of that? That maybe she doesn’t need the Big Gulp from a werewolf. Maybe she likes the power.”

Derek is now glaring at him. “It’s not her fault who she is.”

“Like it’s not Peter’s fault that he’s crazy—doesn’t mean he should get all the excuses he gets.”

“I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“She’s killed before, hasn’t she?”

Derek doesn’t answer. But his whole body is tense.

Stiles sees right through this. “And you’re sacrificing your virility to make sure she stays straight.”

“I want…”—Derek pulls away, throwing his legs over his mattress—“to go to sleep.”

Stiles does in fact have to be awake in five hours. Or less. Plus he doesn’t have a change of clothes. Shit. “Can I borrow a shirt from you tomorrow morning?”

Derek frowns. “It won’t fit.”

“I work in a windowless basement with fake plastic trees. My shirt’s lack of tailoring will only insult Joel the Cart Man—who I suspect is high most of the time, anyway. I’m pretty sure he uses that cart to deal more than Orders to Dismiss and will backs.”

“Fine. Turn out the light. Unplug my phone.”

“And you say you aren’t an alpha anymore,” Stiles mutters, but then it’s dark, the music is off, and he’s sliding under the sheets of the bed of a big, grumpy werewolf with a femme fatale problem.

Derek’s hand immediately goes to cup his neck. He whispers, “Good night, Stiles.”

Stiles leans into the touch. Better yet, he curls into Derek so that he can press his forehead against Derek’s chest. So close, Stiles can hear Derek’s heartbeat, the forceful boom and chug. It’s going faster than it should be for someone who’s on the verge of sleep.

“Please stop the thing with her,” Stiles says.

“I don’t know if I can,” comes the whisper from the darkness.

“You care about her?”

“No.”

“Then please, stop.” There’s silence as the wind gusts against the window. Outside the stars are black—there’s only the neon fix of pollution and commercial storefronts.

Derek’s hand leaves Stiles’s neck to ruffle his hair. “Okay.”

\- - -

In the morning Stiles wakes up with wood—and a werewolf. 

Derek is awake. Stiles can feel that Derek is awake. Besides the—Jesus Christ—sizable erection that is pressed along Stiles’s hamstring, there’s Derek’s breath puffing in his ear. His hand is wrapped around Stiles’s waist, and his thumb is caressing circuits around Stiles’s belly button.

“I have to pee,” Stiles grumbles, and there’s both confusion and arousal and a general sense of what the fuck?

Derek doesn’t let him go. Stiles feels a tickling sensation skirting along the edge of his ear—and then lips, yep, soft, papery lips feather against his neck. They press, plump and pulp, at the corner of his jaw, and Stiles’s whole body goes rigid. His breathing is a mess, and he can’t help the strangled way that he asks, “Derek?”

“Cora already left.” Derek’s voice is half a threat, and then he nips, softly sucks, at the line between Stiles’s ear and his jaw.

Stiles’s erection is so hard it hurts. He’s shaking and yet all he can think about is that he can’t see Derek’s face. He tries to turn around but Derek holds him there. Thumb latched in the meat of Stiles’s stomach while just below his navel, Derek’s finger brushes at the very tip of Stiles’s dick.

“Don’t,” Stiles whispers.

“The way you smell.” Harried pain flutters in Derek’s voice.

“Seriously, Derek, fucking stop.”

Derek stills. His hand comes off Stiles’s dick, but he doesn’t take it away either. His voice is dark, pissed off, when he asks, “Is it because I’m a man? Because, Stiles”—Derek’s livered laugh cuts—“only part of you seems to care.” His hand is sliding back down...

Stiles jerks and yanks. Derek actually lets him go this time, and then Stiles twists around. He’s meeting Derek in the eyes, and god, they’re just like he thought they would be. They’re alien and cold, and mother-fucking-hell, Stiles is rip-roaring pissed. Where the fuck is his bat?

Yet his _voice_ is dead-steady as he hisses, “No, you absolute fucking dumbass, it’s not because you’re a guy. It’s not because you’re not sex on wheels. It’s because—I thought—stupid fucking little me—I thought that you were my _friend._ ”

Oh, and well that does it. Derek’s face goes from master of the universe, Fifty-fucking-Shades to playground reject, and the transition is both satisfying and horrible. And Stiles is not remotely surprised when Derek rolls away to go fetal in the very corner of his mattress.

Stiles takes a minute to regain his breath, to right himself in his clothes, and then he crawls over.

Derek shoves him. Ow.

But Stiles doesn’t relent. Derek makes a growl sound, but Stiles shushes him, and then literally binds himself starfish-style to Derek’s back, resting his cheek against his shoulder. “You haven’t fucked this up,” Stiles says into his ear. “Just, I don’t want that. You can’t test me that way. It’s really, really, really, _really_ not fair.”

Derek shivers. His head lifts enough to lean back on Stiles shoulder. His lashes are black lace fans. His jaw’s shadow is a pebble beach, and the sheen of sweat across his collarbones reflects pink in the morning light.

“You really are beautiful,” Stiles says, and it’s ice in his bones to admit because it’s not one of those skim-the-surface observations, like “check out dat ass.” It’s a feeling that grips Stiles one vertebra at a time and plucks out slow, sad notes.

It’s nice, though, when Derek’s lips tilt into a hint of a smile. “Stop hitting on me.”

“You deserve to be hit. Honestly.”

Derek’s hands rub at his whole face. “I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Derek looks at him. And it’s not that dead, guilt-is-my-middle-name look. There’s fear showing. Derek’s eyes are plantain and mint chip and honey swirl. They are viper lovely.

“Come here,” Stiles says, and Derek twists so that he swaddles Stiles in a wrap of limbs and the blanket pressed up against the wall. This close, Derek’s heart is thud-boom. He smells of man and not enough sleep. The morning light sets his wall aglow. It’s a relief when Derek's hand comes up to curl around Stiles’s neck.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day, Stiles keeps rubbing his eyes. He has to heave a smile every time a child asks for a Strawberry Bright sample. He almost snaps at a thirteen-year-old girl who bitches about nuts in the Brownie Round. But he manages to point at the Fudge Grudge and says, “This is my friend’s favorite chocolate. No nuts.”

When he gets home, he collapses into bed, and he wants to sleep, but the side of his neck won’t stop itching. When Stiles looks in the powder room mirror, he sees it’s because of a speckling of red—and he realizes, oh god, he’s spent the whole day with mild stubble burn on his neck.

Well, it’s not bad, actually.

In fact, the memory of it—of hard muscles flexing into his back and Derek’s husky voice dark in his ear—is what’s really causing the problem.

Stiles gets in the shower. With the water spilling down his shoulders and the steam diminishing his senses, he takes care of the _problem_ with the memory of Derek’s hand slipping into his boxers, the finger nudging his foreskin.

Then Stiles crawls into bed, his towel still around him, and falls right to sleep.

\- - -

He wakes up with his aunt holding out a box of Beef and Broccoli and frowning at him. “Where are your clothes?” Her face is annoyed. It’s more of a what’s-in-your-diaper expression (?) than a why-is-my-teenage-nephew-buck-naked (?) look.

Stiles takes the box and awkwardly sits up. “Too tired for PJs. And huh, no more watermelon?”

“Sick of it. Brazil nut?” She is holding out a jar. Darting across the couch, Sap leans down to sniff with interest.

“I don’t want to know,” Stiles insists, but he takes a thumb-sized nut from around Sap’s disappointed cat scowl.

She shrugs. “I dumped the old fogey. His breath reeked of shitakes.”

Stiles lifts a bite of his beef. The sauce drips from his chopsticks. The smell is sort of awesome. (San Francisco has the best Chinese food. And his aunt is sort of the take-out master.) “Shitakes are better than… portabellas, maybe?”

“Fungus is generally not something I like to stick my tongue in. Period.”

“I dunno. I like mushrooms. I’d totally—”

“—I’m worried you’re working too much. I think you’re supposed to be having more fun.”

Says the woman who has a single female friend (who is a co-worker) and serial-dates douchebags off the internet. “I’ve been hanging out with Harley… and my friends Derek and Cora. People at my work are cool, too. I don’t mind being busy. I’ve saved twelve hundred bucks at this point. I’ll probably be able to make at least $4K by the end of the summer.”

She nods, taking a bite of her own lo mein. “Were you with one of them last night?”

“Um.”

“You’re not eighteen. I’m in charge of you. It’s _annoying_ , so next time, I need a text so that I have evidence to present to my brother. Cops are into that shit.”

“Yeah, I crashed at Derek and Cora’s. They’re brother and sister.”

“You don’t look like you slept.” Aunt Gwendolyn’s face says she’s wondering which of the two siblings it was that ruffled up her nephew.

“A few hours.”

His aunt’s chopsticks pinch and open. “Like I said, safety supplies are down the hall, top closet—”

“Jesus. You can stop it with that. I’ve never even—”

“—don’t want to know.” Aunt Gwendolyn is now making an _X_ with her chopsticks. “Just… you have your whole life to be a nasty old hag or flaccid geezer or whatever. Use your youth for follies and fun.”

“Plan on it.” Stiles chomps on a broccoli sprig and grins, wishing he believed himself. Because his aunt is not completely wrong.

Lately, he’s been feeling old.

Ancient, even.

He’s not even sure it’s the curse on his heart. In its place, the word “responsibility” weighs like a boulder.

\- - -

He and Harley are at the Chipotle on O’Farrell Street. Harley has her college applications out on the table. “So, five year plan. I’m on the women’s apparel team this year. Become an assistant manager by the time I’m a college sophomore. I think I need to study abroad in Paris or Milan—and make sure my senior collection makes my professors’ eyes pop and all the loaded socialites want to throw down their clutches. Then, if I’ve done my networking right, I’m headed toward either costume design or some boutique label shit show. I’m keeping those options open.”

“Managers work a lot of hours,” Stiles says around a mouth full of burrito.

“It’s Fashion Merchandising, not pre-Med. I can swing it.”

Stiles doesn’t doubt it. “It’s good you have a plan.”

“Someday my label is going to dominate. And my main model will be a black woman with a bowling ball ass in Edwardian poof skirts. You just wait.”

Stiles smiles. “So you’re staying here—in San Fran?”

She nods. “Unless I transferred to the Migratoire in L.A., but my family is here with free rent and I don't care how people act. Student loans aren’t free. Uncle Sam might be nicer than my Uncle Ray, but he still wants his money _back_.”

Stiles is thinking about this when there’s the familiar click of heels. Daphne is walking right toward their table. Her surprise when he sees her is barely feigned. “My two favorite sales associates!” She brightens, mahogany nails clipping the metal edge of the table.

“Uh, hi, Daphne,” Harley greets, giving her the you’re-a-creepy-boss smile. “What up?”

“So funny to see you both here.”

“Not really. It’s a two minute walk from the store, and the guac is addictive.” Harley crunches on a glopped up corn chip.

Daphne smiles like Harley is just the sweetest thing, before shifting her attention to Stiles. “Can I say how I love that jacket on you? It fits you so well. I’m pleased to see how well you’re representing the store.” Daphne’s fingers fit over the wrist strap and she lifts it—along with his whole arm—like she’s looking for a tag. “The color does your eyes justice.” She flashes him another too-perfect smile and Stiles might be crazy, but he thinks he sees smoke wisping in the fluorescent lights.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Keeping her eyes locked on him, she puts a finger to her lips and makes the same “shh” sound she did the other night—but this time there’s none of the previous flirtation. It’s a threat.

Daphne goes to place her order, and Stiles spends the awkward moments in between compiling a list of everything he knows about battling a succubus. He tells himself he really needs to get his hands on something iron.

After Daphne is gone with her “to-go,” Harley leans in. “I don't care if she looks like a tall version of Daenerys Targaryen. That woman wants to conquer Narnia.”

“I could not agree more,” Stiles bites out. “Oh, and how’s Cora?”

\- - -

The next week or so is without waves. Stiles goes to his various jobs. He calls his dad and gets updates. He eats with Harley. On the occasional free evening that he’s not working at the store, Stiles hangs out at Derek and Cora’s. There’s no reenactment of the morning of which they do not speak, but Stiles does end up taking half of Derek’s mattress from time to time. At work, Derek seeks Stiles out. If Derek’s hand often ends up casually on Stiles neck, neither of them say anything about it. Especially when Stiles leans into it.

Derek’s thing with Daphne is definitely over.

Besides the Chipotle standoff, Stiles catches her glares from time to time (though they almost instantly transform to smiles upon discovery). Telling Harley that he wants to try “jewelry design,” Stiles strings some rusted iron rings on thin rope. Harley declares the look “distressed industrial” with approval. And though he rolled his eyes a whole lot upon receipt, Derek wears the wristband that Stiles made him without fail. Stiles keeps two metal bars in the pockets of his jacket. They have lived through alpha packs, ghoulish witches, and stalker photographers. There is no such thing as too much caution.

Stiles feels strangely happy. He brings Derek ice cream, and sometimes with Poodle Strudel on his tongue, he’ll tell Stiles things. Things like, “I don't know why I killed Peter—the first time—it’s why I couldn’t kill him the second,” or “Sometimes I call Cora Laura and Cora doesn’t correct me,” or “Before Daphne, I went into stalls in the backs of bars with whoever asked,” and “I don’t need the money from the job, but Cora said I had to have something to do. I have no idea what I should be doing. I don’t really want to do anything. Nothing specific.”

He drops these words like confessions and he looks at Stiles like he might have the answers. Stiles doesn’t have a clue, but he listens with all his might. Sometimes, he asks questions or other times, he says, “It’s what you needed then,” but mostly, he settles his head in Derek’s lap and lets Derek fuss with his hair. When Derek’s eyes meet Stiles’s, there’s so many questions that Stiles doesn’t know where to start.

He feels like he’ll know when he’s ready.

In late July, Stiles ends up stuck doing markdowns for the tag sale pretty much every night. Derek is stuck front of house, so Stiles mostly works with this girl named Megan. They chat, and he finds out that she has read every John Green book and sobbed her butt off over _A Fault in Our Stars._ This is also how he finds out that she wants to be an oncologist someday because her dad died from cancer like Stiles’s mom did. Not to mention that she’s an artist. Besides collecting graphic novels, she illustrates comics for fun.

So, um, yeah. Cool girl.

But it’s only when they are in the break room one day that he takes the hint.

She presses a piece of chocolate into his fingers that’s already melting from her warmth. “Sorry,” she says. Megan’s trademark is to always wear red lipstick (it looks good), but this time, as she licks her fingers, teasing a smear of chocolate across her ruby lip, it’s with bold blue eyes that are intense and not remotely sorry.

“It’s fine.” Stiles pops the chocolate in his mouth and swallows too fast.

Stiles has been kind of stupid. He’s missed a whole field of signals. Plus, Megan isn’t really the type of girl to ignore, especially since Stiles has a type (it’s strawberry blond and adorable), and while Megan might not be a match Lydia for in terms of genius and cunning, she’s awesome in her own right.

The reason _why_ Stiles hasn’t noticed her interest is downstairs, wearing boner-inducing clothing and making middle aged women (and men) empty their wallets.

At first, Stiles attempts to go back to the world in which he doesn’t notice that Megan constantly flirts with him.

It doesn’t really work. Megan talks her way into accompanying Harley to the ice cream shop. Her favorite flavor is also Insane Plantain. She sometimes leaves little comics in Stiles’s locker that depict dumb shit in the store (like the time a woman used Stiles’s arm as _hanger_ _rack_ or that other time when some posh bitch _snapped_ at Harley and Harley did not kill her or lecture her European ass about the history of slavery in America). Megan’s cartoon drawings are so fucking good, and they make Stiles laugh his shit off.

Megan and Derek hate each other. Megan says, “He’s just rude to me—for no reason.”

(Even though Stiles is pretty sure she knows the reason.)

Er, and then there’s the incident.

The store has two entrances, and Stiles is assigned to the one that faces the Square. Normally being at the door is easy. You greet people. If anyone beeps going through the doorway, it’s because a hard tag was missed at the register, so you check their receipt and find the booger so they can leave without having plastic security chunks as an additional fashion accessory. If someone has a question, you walkie for the answer. All of that. Then there’s the less easy part: shoplifters.

The basic rules: Monitor anyone who’s looking more at you than at the clothes. If two people walk in and one has the big bag, keep your eyes on the bag. If they tag team you, call for Derek.

There’s these two women. White. Dressed like they walked right out of the Migratoire catalogue. One walks in after the other, but there’s a look shared. One of them has a huge Kate Spade bag and aviators. The one without the bag comes right up to Stiles with her phone out. “I saw this online—but do you have it in the store?” Her phone is in Stiles’s face. The other woman disappears behind the birch column display.

Stiles smiles—sort of. Maybe this isn’t what he thinks it is. But regardless, he radios, “Derek, I have a Friend at the front with questions.”

Friend is code of course, and the woman’s face shows she knows this. Over the radio, Stiles hears Derek’s voice. “I have your 20. Megan—leave shoes and follow the woman with the booster bag who’s headed toward the jeans booth. Ask her if she needs ‘help’ so she knows we’re onto her. She’s going to swipe and head out the other door.”

Meanwhile, Stiles is looking at the image of a lace dress in his face and saying, “I think that’s downstairs,” but the woman shrugs, tucking her phone in her pocket—and pretty much charges for the door.

Not too shabby, Stiles thinks. Alert and Destroy. He kind of wants to fist pump.

What Stiles doesn’t expect is for the woman with the Kate Spade bag to head his way with Megan in tow, asking, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Stiles sees the top cuff of one of their three hundred dollar pairs of jeans hanging out the top of the bag. The bag that was empty on the way in is now full.

But then Derek is there, physically blocking the door. The woman slams to a stop, and with a smile on his face, Derek says, “Thank you for coming to Migratoire. Can I help you with those pants you just shoved in your bag? I can leave them at the register until you’re ready to pay.”

“I’m fine,” the woman says, and then with Derek at her heels, she throws the bag under the nearest table. Jeans go flying, and without looking back, the woman flees through Stiles’s door.

Stiles is only sort of hyperventilating as Megan comes up, and Derek says to her, “Next time, go where I tell you when I tell you. That almost ended badly.”

Um, it’s not exactly fair. Plus, Megan is at least seven inches shorter than Derek, so his looming is not really kosher. But then Megan says, “I came as quickly as I could.”

“You went toward Stiles first. The opposite direction of where I told you to.”

“I was worried and—”

They’re cut off by Daphne, who more or less pushes herself between them. “Congratulations, you guys, on successfully preventing a loss. Derek, you’re going to go upstairs and write an email, informing other stores in our area of the descriptions and tactics of our lovely friends. Megan, go right back to shoes, okay?”

This is the one time that Stiles doesn’t completely hate Daphne. Because, oh god, Derek looks two steps away from fanging Megan.

It’s that evening when Derek walks out the door with Stiles that he says, “You need to tell her.”

“You mean Megan?”

Derek gives him a don’t-play-dumb-with-me glare.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles insists. “Really, you know I’m not interested.”

Derek’s expression has yet to change. “You made me be clear with Daphne. Now you do it.”

Stiles feels the tension curl up his spine, and he’s suddenly shy. “Because we’re…”

They’re standing in the middle of the square. It’s a typical misty San Francisco evening, the kind that seeps right through your clothes and makes you feel like you’re sweating even though it’s too cool. Stiles shivers in his jacket, tucking his chin into the neck flaps.

Derek’s hand moves like it’s going to cup the back of Stiles’s neck, but then it stops, and his fingers slide back to tilt at Stiles’s jaw. Derek is standing close. Stiles almost wants to deny it. Because a year ago, hell, even a few months ago, he wouldn’t have believed this. Even now, he has trouble really letting himself look at Derek that way. Because for Stiles, this is it. His crushes are all consuming. He can’t adore a person’s laugh and then ignore thinking how they might look pressed into a pillow with the lights turned out. On that cold morning when Derek tested him, Stiles was able to get away because there were no smiles and there hadn’t even been a kiss. But now…

Derek’s hands wrap Stiles’s face. He presses his lips to Stiles’s brow. Gentle is the caress—and trembling, too—but most of all, Stiles’s throat is corkscrewing, and there’s a numb tingling in his arms. He’s only ever been kissed by Heather pre-her-murder and, well, Lydia mid-panic attack, and those were both flustered and issued with surprise. When Derek’s nose tip comes level with his, Stiles sort of puckers. His hands hang with the terror of not knowing where to put them.

Derek comes to him with a single soft press. Stiles thinks, _My lips are chapped and his will never be_. But then Derek drags in his bottom lip with a long, slow pull, and Stiles relaxes into it. He puts his hands on Derek’s hips and holds the fuck on as Derek brushes at his top lip, before nipping again and pulling back, eyes sparked with blue. “Should I not have done that?” Derek asks.

For a second, Stiles almost tries to answer the double-negative but then he ducks his head and manages, “I think it’s fine. It’s good. Are you good?”

Derek’s brows say Stiles is failing at this.

“Right. So... I’m telling Megan to go jump off a cliff.”

Derek nods slowly. “Or I’ll tell her with my teeth.”

Stiles pokes his arm. “Asshole.”

Derek’s head cocks to the side, and he’s smiling, almost shyly, and Christ on a Cracker, Stiles thinks, _I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into_.

Derek’s thumb brushes Stiles’s lip, and he says, “You should probably go home.”

Stiles makes a noise of protest.

“We should take it… slow. For both of us.”

“Slow is fine. Slow is…” Stiles stops before he can repeat the sentence a third time.

That night, Stiles can’t stop pressing his tongue to his bottom lip. He dreams of poodles and pastries and milk melting on the floor. He dreams of Derek.

\-  - -

The next day, he and Megan are at reg when Stiles says, “So, I’m kind of dating Derek now.”

Her face blanks, and her eyes drop to the keyboard, and her fingers are stiff as they type. “I didn’t think you swung that way.”

“Not normally…”

Her brows go high. “I could see how he might be an exception. Well, that’s nice.” She’s quiet for a few customers before she comes over, shoulders squared. “You and Derek should come out tonight. A bunch of us are going. I know you normally head right home, but…”

They are going to a gay bar, and apparently, this is Megan trying to be nice and supportive and not the sore loser or whatever because she’s that cool, and so somehow Stiles ends up saying, “Sure.”

\- - -

It’s Sam and Finn and Roger and Megan—and Derek is not okay with any of it.

“No.”

“We’ll go right in and right out.”

“No.”

“Seriously, you can sneak me off into some dark corner, and we can, um…” Stiles doesn’t know why he’s such a doof that he can’t even say words like kiss or make-out, because so far it was just the one kiss, and every time, all day, that Stiles has looked at Derek, he’s half-wanted to jump out of his skin because Stiles has a _boyfriend_ and it’s Derek-fucking-Hale, and Harley is an asshole because she keeps singing “Hallelujah” with rumbling gospel every time she walks past him.

“I know where you’re sticking your tongue,” he snapped back at her.

To which she said, “I can only hope he tastes as good.”

Something in Stiles’s expression (or possibly his inability to use his words) causes Derek to grumble-growl-mutter a thousand insults under his breath, but then he’s nodding and saying, “Twenty minutes. Then we’re gone.”

“Twenty minutes.”

Close is over, and it is Friday night, and they’re all standing just outside the door waiting for Sam, when there’s not just Sam but Daphne. “I’m crashing your party,” she laugh-sings, mostly with an eye on Stiles.

And his heart gets that not-good feeling. Derek’s hand tightens on his neck.

\- - -

Stiles suspects that the club is pretty typical. It has a little less flash than the Jungle in Beacon Hills. A rainbow flag hangs over the door. The bouncer says, “Don't even try,” and stamps Stiles’s hand with a big N-O while he gives everyone else pink bracelets. Inside there are oak booths and men in tight pants and some very large-boned individuals in dresses who are booty-shaking on the dance floor. It makes Stiles fondly think of the ladies he invited to Lydia’s pool party.

They’ve barely made it inside, though, when Derek stops.

When Stiles asks the silent question, Derek mouths, “Werewolf.”

“You have to go negotiate territory, don’t you?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Something like that.” And he cuts right across the room.

Megan (whose fake ID the bouncer did not reject) grabs a shot off her tray to hand to him. “Here. Tequila.”

“Probably not a good idea.”

“I’ve had two. Just enough to relax. I want to dance.”

Stiles is not relaxed. Daphne is laughing with Sam, and Derek is engaged in a Golden Gate pissing contest. “That’s okay.”

“Fine,” she says, and Stiles can tell she’s not trying to be sour about it. “More for me then.” The amber liquid goes down the hatch.

Finn and Roger try to get him to dance, and well, let it not be said that Stiles doesn’t like dancing, but he’s not really into it, what with Derek still not having resurfaced from his “talk” yet.

This time it’s Roger who insists, “Have a sip. It’s got ice cream in it.”

Stiles, being a master taster of all things ice cream at this point, recognizes amaretto. But still, he shoves the glass away, because he’s pretty sure if he drinks too much then Derek will put the kibosh on certain activities. Stiles stays away from other men, only dancing with his friends. But when Finn and Roger start to get more than a little into each other and Sam ends up wrapped around a meaty guy, Stiles heads back to the table.

What he doesn’t expect to see is Megan’s purse. It’s just sitting there.

Stiles thinks, _No one leaves their purse alone in a bar_.

Behind their booth, there’s a short, tiled hallway that leads toward the kitchen and bathrooms. Stiles picks up Megan’s bag and heads down it. By the bathroom, there is an older white-haired man who gives him a come hither look.

Stiles so doesn’t have time for that crap. “Did you see a girl go this way?”

“Not interested in women.” Another leer.

“Seriously—did you see a girl my age?”

He frowns, sobering.  “Maybe—with another woman. She went that way.” He’s pointing at the metal emergency exit at the end of the hallway.

Chest thrumming, Stiles runs. The door opens to an alley—and like before, in that storage room, the smoke is everywhere. It’s not like it was with Derek—it’s not tiny hooks. Daphne is on top of Megan like a spider, and Megan’s chest is lifted, as if her heart is about to be yanked out of her chest.

Grabbing both bars of iron from his pockets, Stiles charges.

Daphne unlatches from Megan with a snapping hiss. Her eyes are gas yellow and her mouth is wrong. Stiles thinks _baleen whale,_ then _barracuda,_ and his legs are swept out from underneath him even as he slashes the iron through the air. His elbow cracks against brick but he manages to smash the bar in Daphne’s face and she screams—loud and piercing.

That is, until the weird smile comes back. She says, “Ta-ta for now.” Around her the dust starts to boil, and like steam, she shifts with the sudden gust of wind.

The alley is dead silent except for Stiles’s breathing.

Which is a problem because that means Megan is _not_ breathing.

“Don’t be dead,” Stiles says, shaking her. “Oh, just fuck and no. And what do you do for succubus victims? You warm them up. You cover them. You—” The book said _line up your life source with theirs_. Stiles mutters, “I sort of did this for Cora.” Gently laying her head back on the concrete, Stiles places his lips on Megan’s and goes to town.

She doesn’t respond. It’s not working.

Stiles tries chest compressions.

Well, and then he does both. He tosses his iron bar to the side and works at Megan’s mouth—she tastes like tequila and lemon—while his hands pump her chest.

And then she’s coughing. She’s groaning, and Stiles hugs her tight and positively croons with relief.

Only to see Derek standing there with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Not good and not good and not good. Stiles cannot begin to imagine what that just looked like.

“Succubus.” Stiles points.

But it’s like Derek doesn’t hear him. He turns heel and walks back through the metal door.

“Stiles,” Megan gasps. Then she vomits.

\- - -

After Stiles has put Megan in a cab with instructions to take her the hospital, he races back inside to find Finn and Roger wearing twin faces of horror.

“What did you do to Derek?” Finn asks.

Stiles holds up his busted elbow, to which Finn responds by frantically gathering napkins to stop the bleeding.

“Derek did that?” Roger is five foot three, but he looks ready to throw it down for Stiles.

“Daphne. She…”—Stiles thinks hard—“did something to Megan’s drink, and I went out back, and it was not okay, and I was trying to revive Megan, and Derek came out to find me, and it looked bad, but I couldn’t explain because Daphne had already run away, and then Megan was puking, and I had to put her in a cab to the hospital.”

“Is Megan okay?” Finn’s hands cover his mouth.

Meanwhile, Roger slams down his fist and with drunken outrage, declares, “I knew it about Daphne.”

“Yeah, maybe one of you could go meet her. She was fine—very conscious when she left. I think she just needs fluids? I’ll need to file a police report.” Stiles holds the napkins to his elbow with one hand while he uses the other to gasp down water because this is his life. “Now, where’s Derek?”

Both Roger and Finn make identical masks of horror.

Well, and then Stiles just _knows_.

\- - -

He finds Derek on the other side of the dance floor, on the back side of a booth. The guy he’s kissing is high-cheeked and blond and hot and wearing a t-shirt that drips off the hips he’s using to grind against Stiles’s boyfriend. The guy’s face says that his luck is too good to be true. Stiles wants to punch the look right off.

The iron pieces are cold in Stiles’s jacket pockets. His elbow is throbbing. He really, really fucking hates Daphne. And right now, he wants to make Derek drink toothpaste after he clonks him on the head.

When Stiles yells, the music is too loud in this part of the room for his voice to stand out. That, or Derek is just intent on ignoring him. Stiles claps Derek on the shoulder. But Derek just rolls the movement right off. And when he raises his lidded eyes to look at Stiles, his eyes say: _fuck you_ and _I don’t care_ and _Stiles, how does it feel?_

Stiles raises his bleeding elbow and jabs his finger in the center of his own wound.

Blood drips, and Derek goes from club freak machine to in-Stiles’s-face sniffing in the next instant. He just sort of drops Blondie, who stumbles back with justifiable outrage. Derek’s brows are bunched, and he mouths something that is likely: “Blood” and “bad.”

Stiles thrusts a finger down to where Megan’s puke is crusted on his shoe. Then he holds up the iron bar, which to a werewolf’s nose is probably putrid with succubus stink. When he sees it all dawn on Derek’s stupid face, Stiles yells, “You are such a jerk-face dumbass,” before marching out of the bar.

Once outside, Stiles stands on the street corner and does not scream. Instead, he says, “I have to go to the police station now to file a report about Daphne attacking Megan. I don’t think you’re exactly a great witness to the scene, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Why did you…?” Derek’s nostrils flare.

“How to Save Succubus Victims 101. It’s a physical thing. You have to hand over some of your own life force.” For his part, Stiles is glad it had ended at chest compressions and kissing.

“You enjoyed it.”

“I enjoyed her _not dying._ That is what you saw.”

Derek’s face says he’s not ready to listen to anything.

“And you had to go right for the throat, didn’t you? Let’s fulfill Stiles’s ultimate fear: Derek can have anyone—who wants that skinny kid?”

Derek shakes his head. “She was falling in love with you. Everyone does. You barely have to try.”

Stiles cannot begin to argue with how off-base Derek is. Yeah, big competition, _one_ girl in _seventeen_ years. “I only want you, asshole.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles wants to curl into a ball. Also, his elbow really hurts. “Come with me to the station? This is going to suck. It’s already late, and I have ice cream duty starting at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Derek nods. “I’ll go with you.”

“Are you sure?”

Derek walks past him, and Stiles knows it. He can feel it: something is broken.


	4. Chapter 4

They file the police report, and Stiles can just tell the officer taking the report isn’t really taking it seriously. Except then the report from the hospital arrives, and there is weird shit in Megan’s blood analysis. Psychotropic-blah-blah, and with a wearied wipe of the brow, the cop is muttering, “This is San Francisco” and he starts asking Stiles and Derek actual, legit questions about the crime scene. He sends a cop car over.

Daphne’s loft appears empty, until a neighbor complains about a smell in the duct work. And that’s when the police find a body.

At work, there are twenty different rumors.  Megan decides to transfer to a different store. “It’s too weird,” she says. “Daphne just asked me to step outside with her while she smoked—then she kissed me. I woke up and you were there.” Megan makes him promise to keep in touch, but Stiles doesn’t think he will.

Derek isn’t really talking to him. When Stiles asks, he says, “I need some time.”  Stiles sort of knows it isn’t about what he did. It’s more about Derek’s own reaction. That Derek didn’t smell the blood or the succubus smoke or even hear Stiles’s words.  Derek just gave up at the drop of the hat. But then maybe it’s the image: Stiles sprawled on top of girl, his hands pressed on her breast, and his tongue licking against hers. Maybe, it’s what Derek always believed was going to happen—that Stiles would give up on him.

It’s enough to make Stiles spend the evening curled up on the couch eating ice cream with his aunt.

“Some dumb bitch break your heart?” she asks.

“A dumb dude and… it’s complicated.”

She perks up at that. “Really? I thought you were into girls. That redhead.”

“Mostly.”

“Cute?”

Stiles nods with as much emphasis as possible.

“Well, did you get sex out of it?”

“Still a virgin.”

His aunt frowns. “Well, don’t ask me. I sure as fuck don’t know how to fix these things.”

“Ice cream.” Stiles offers the pint.

She nods, spooning a bite, then offers him Brazil nuts.

There is a knock on the door. Stiles looks at his aunt, who is giving the same look back to him. “No Match.com plans?”

She shakes her head. “Your rent is free. Get the door.”

Derek is standing in the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes like a lost puppy. “This is your aunt’s place?”

His aunt, leaning over the couch, says, “So, you’re the one who…” She blinks as Derek steps into the living room light, hand extended to shake.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Derek Hale.”

“I’m Gwendolyn Stilinski.” She gives a low sort of chuckle as she lets Derek shake her hand. “Stiles lied to me.”

“About me?” Derek asks. His voice is light, charming. Then again, this is what he does every day in the store.

“He said you were cute.”

“I’m not cute?” Derek’s wearing an almost-pout. Stiles is hardcore rolling his eyes.

She turns to him with wicked joy. “Stiles, I did say…”

“The closet down the hall. Um, we’re going to go to my room, if that’s okay?”

His aunt’s smile is huge. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Stiles snorts and half-drags Derek to the room, which is both his aunt’s den and the place where he sleeps. Stiles sits down in his desk chair while Derek takes the center of Stiles’s bed and squares his shoulders. Derek’s words come out over-practiced. “I’m going to kill the succubus,” he says.

Stiles can’t help his wince. “No, you’re not.”

“She’s going to come after you—that’s what they do. They settle on prey and then circle it. She’s been circling you. I won’t let her have you.”

Stiles knows this about the prey thing. Especially with Daphne’s little “Ta-ta for now.” And Stiles has not been idle. His iron jewelry collection is about ready for its own Etsy store. Still—Derek. “And how are you going to do this?”

“Probably behead her with an iron sword.”

“Do you even have an iron sword?”

“Cast iron knife.”

“Um, on the list of your crazy ex-girlfriends, it’s never been you that kills them.” Stiles considers. “Actually, it’s normally Peter…”

“I want to make it better.”

“And by that,” Stiles says, swallowing, “you mean us.”

Derek pushes off the bed. He takes two strides, and then he’s at Stiles feet, hands sliding up his thighs. “I missed you.”

“Did you?” Stiles can’t help the sad quaver in his voice.

Derek collapses his forehead against Stiles’s chest. “God, Stiles.”

“So now you want me.” Stiles really wants to slide in fingers in Derek’s hair. Not doing it takes insane restraint. Stiles’s can feel the rise of his dick. He’s been feeling it since the second he saw Derek standing in his hallway.

“I never stopped.” Derek slides his face to Stiles’s lap, nosing in his scent.

For a second, Stiles considers stopping things here and now. They probably should discuss their feelings. About Derek dancing with that guy. But then Stiles is kind of sick of emotional shit, and Derek is beautiful and warm, so Stiles leans down to kiss him.

Derek accepts the kiss, Stiles’s simple peck, and then he bends his head to lick a stripe across the bulge in Stiles’s sweatpants.

Stiles jerks—then almost falls out of the chair.

Derek dodges a knee.

“Just warn a guy okay?” Stiles’s eyes feel ready to pop out.

Derek commands, “Sit still,” and then Stiles’s pants are being eased down his hips. It’s one of those perfect-horrible moments when his dick bobs free and Derek is just looking at it, and Stiles is wondering—does it smell okay?

But then Derek noses at the tip. He licks at the frenulum so that Stiles is holding back a moan with his teeth. Sort of. The moan manages to get out.

Derek mutters, “Fuck, you’re loud.” Then, “You do have an aunt.” Stiles gets a pillow in the face.

And then Derek licks candy cane stripes down the front and sides. He laps at the tip like it’s ice cream that’s too cold to swallow, before saying, “Push it in,” and widening his mouth for Stiles.

With the view being what it is, Stiles keeps losing the pillow, and Derek has to shove it back in his face.

It doesn’t take long. As soon as Derek really sets a rhythm, Stiles is biting his teeth and trying not to buck his hips, but the orgasm just rushes.

Stiles is spent and tasting cotton and feathers as Derek licks up the few drips he didn’t swallow.

“You are such a kinky fucking bastard,” Stiles mutters.

“Take off your shirt,” Derek says.

Stiles is stripped of his shirt, and he does not wrap his arms around himself, no matter that Derek is scrutinizing him in intense detail. He does chuckle nervously, though. “Um, maybe you should remove clothing, too…?”

Derek rips his shirt off without breaking his stare at Stiles. Then he’s grabbing Stiles by the hands, pulling him over toward the bed. Kisses are pressed into Stiles’s belly. His nipples are suckled. Stiles’s dick is still out, loose from his boxers, and every time Derek scoots up his body, he can’t help but arch up. Stiles is already hard again.

“We should do you,” Stiles says.

“In a minute.” Derek plunges his face into Stiles’s neck.

Stiles grabs the sides of Derek’s face, pulls him up for a kiss. It lasts long enough for Derek to map every corner of Stiles’s mouth, and then he’s pulling back, saying, “Turn over.”

Stiles is a basket of nerves, but sex, the penetrative kind, is definitely on his to-do list, so he says, “Do you want…?”

“Not in. Not yet. Lube?” Derek runs his finger down the cleft of Stiles’s ass, and Stiles gets the plan.

“You want to ride me like old Socratic style—like you’re my teacher in white robes with olive twigs, and I’m your little Greek pupil—”

“Lube,” Derek repeats, but his hands are totally kneading at Stiles’s ass cheeks, like he can’t stop himself, and well, Stiles has to say, he’s always been pretty okay with his butt. Yeah, it’s pretty fucking white, but Derek seems to like that part.

The lube, when applied, is fucking freezing.

“Warm it up. Oh my god. You have a dick. Use it. Brrr—”

Well, and then Derek’s weight is on him. A hand is buried in Stiles’s hair, and Derek’s face is foggy in his neck.

Stiles likes the loud panting in his ear. He likes the way Derek slides slick between his cheeks and nuzzles his cock against Stiles’s hole like he’s pressing kisses. And then when he really gets going, he switches to sliding between Stiles thighs, grinding hard while his fingers fan across Stiles’s ribs, Stiles has to squeeze his legs tight and grip hard onto the bedpost for leverage. Of course, he likes it best when Derek can’t hold it anymore, his pelvis pressing down so hard it almost hurts, and Stiles turns to see Derek’s eyes: bright blue. Fangs tipping at the corners of his mouth.

Stiles is so screwed.

When Derek rolls off, Stiles says, “I don’t feel like a virgin anymore.”

Derek draws Stiles in close. Really close. Boa constrictor close.

“You okay, big guy?”

Derek shakes his head and says, “Just don’t be evil and don’t die.”

“Um, well, I’m not planning to let any alpha werewolves gnaw on me, and as for the other part, I don’t know. I am sort of evil.” Stiles presses his dick, now rigid, into Derek’s thigh.

Derek, no matter that he’s still wearing his own o-face, looks interested. “You know what I mean.”

Stiles does. “Slow—that’s what we were gonna do?”

“How slow?” Derek asks, and before Stiles can answer, he takes Stiles in his grip. The bastard pumps him fast and hard.

\- - -

“So I’m sort of dating someone…” Stiles can’t help his grimace as he waits for his dad to respond.

“Oh, I heard all about it.”

Dammit Aunt Gwen. “You’re not mad?”

His dad sighs before huffing a dry laugh. “You never did like them cuddly.”

Werewolves are absurdly cuddly. Stiles does not say this. “Um, I miss you.”

“I told your aunt to give you a curfew.”

“How’d that go over?”

“Told me I needed to get laid.”

Which is what Stiles figured.

\- - -

Stiles is at the end of one of the huge shelves in the filing library. He’s wearing headphones (listening to Bob, yeah, yeah, Derek got him restarted) so he doesn’t hear the squeaking of Joel’s cart until it’s right behind him.

“Package for you,” Joel says, holding out one of the firm’s interoffice envelopes.

Stiles never gets packages or mail here. He wonders if it’s from his aunt. When he slides it open, there’s a gray envelope inside, and it’s marked confidential.

“Probably from HR.” Joel, being one to mind his own business, takes the cart around the corner.

There’s no one else around. People generally avoid the stacks if they can get Stiles to do their grunt work instead. Stiles unseals the envelope and pulls out the page.

Typed across it is: You iron your shirt, munchkin. You don’t wear an iron shirt.

Stiles is crumpling the page into a ball when he hears the loud creaking thud—and then smoke bursts at the same time that the massive shelf falls in his direction. The other book case stops it—only for a second—before it’s falling, too, and Stiles is running for the end of the aisle, and Bob is singing, “Said he was a buffalo soldier,” as Stiles dives to be clear—and doesn’t make it.

Files crash, and Stiles’s ankle makes a shooting twist as it’s caught in a mash of the hanging file folders and dusty boxes. More of which fall on his head.

Stiles is knocking yellowed stock certificates out of his face as a wooden cane comes to his aid.

Or not.

Daphne is wearing a business suit and a visitor’s badge. “You are such a pain,” she says, and then she uses the crook of the cane to club him right across the temple.

\- - -

Stiles awakens to growling.

At first, Stiles is all full of semi-comatose indignation. He can’t really speak, but he think-yells, “ _Derek do not get yourself killed._ ”

But then his vision sort of clears—despite the smoke—and then it’s not Derek. It’s Cora.

Cora is wearing leatherish pants and a low cut green tank and now he’s wondering if his getting kidnapped by a succubus interrupted a date with Harley. She has an iron pig sticker in her grip and she’s flipping it around like it’s a baton. The effect is rather _Crouching Tiger_.

“Boo, outta here now.”

That would be Harley. Her dress is blood-orange, her hair hangs in fresh twists, and her gladiator boots with twenty ties say _you wish you could fuck this_. Yep, this confirms it. Stiles’s getting abducted by a succubus did hold up their date.

“Mmm sorry.” On the other side of the room, blue smoke slices at Cora and Stiles is even sorrier.

Harley hefts him. “How does your skinny ass weigh this much?”

Of course, they’re at the door when Derek charges in. He greets Stiles with a relieved exhale, says “Thank you,” to Harley, and then rushes in after his sister.

“I need to call my dad,” Stiles says.

“He knows about that crazy?”

“Yeah.” Stiles looks around and realizes they are somewhere underground. Likely the basement of some commercial building near his own office. “How did you find me?”

“Derek got a call from some guy you work with? Joel? Said the smoke detectors were going nuts and shit was falling—and that no, he wasn’t that high.”

Stiles frowns, trying to process this. “Derek doesn’t know Joel.”

“Oh trust me, Hallelujah got to know Joel. Probably is cozy with the ice cream lady too—knowing him. Anyway, we ran down here, and then Cora was sniffing and snorting all crazy like she could find a line of coke from that office to you. And don’t think I haven’t figured some shit out. Besides Cora’s sniffer thing, what to mine eyes doth appear but blue ass smoke and Daphne chewing on your inner aura like a fucking zombie reindeer?” Her eyes say Stiles has serious explaining to do.

“Huh.”

Harley crosses her arms. “And I know nobody’s slipped me drugs.” She frowns. “I think.”

From the door behind them, there’s a shrieking growl. A thud and a hiss.

“Aw, fuck. That sounds bad. Real bad.” Harley is watching the doorway with wide eyes.

Stiles isn’t wearing his jacket. Actually, he’s not wearing a shirt either. It might explain why he’s shivering. Where is his iron?

Harley is wearing the iron washer necklace that he made her.

Because she is an amazingly supportive friend.

Stiles has it in his palms and is holding it up when Daphne billows into the hall. Even in a state of distress, she’s lovely. Champagne liquid bubbles from a cut in her side. Though her hair is less blonde and more a hoary cloud. “You,” she snarls.

Stiles braces himself as she runs at them, a smoggy blur of smoke-spider and humanoid fairy.

Harley screams as they’re knocked back. The iron has hurt Daphne—Stiles can tell—but the string is still on Harley’s neck—and Harley is slumped on the other side of the room. Stiles has been knocked against the wall, and he’s defenseless.

Daphne bends over him. “I will take it all.”

A succubus can do this thing where they numb you as they wrench out your energy so that you don’t notice the pain.

Daphne doesn’t do that.

All gaseous tentacles come at him—and Stiles screams.

Except that then she’s gone, bird bones crunching against the wall.

Blood dripping from his chin, Derek is there. Swooping in behind him, Cora’s pants are ripped and there is rage, and Daphne doesn’t have a chance to react before Cora slices the knife through her throat.

Pushing up, Harley says, “You sure that worked?”

Cora stabs Daphne a few more times for good measure.

Both Harley and Cora nod in satisfaction.

With a sickened breath, Stiles slumps back onto the tiles. Derek’s hands come to cup his face and Stiles asks, “So, how are we going to explain it this time?”

“I’ll handle it. C’mere.” Derek hefts him so that Stiles’s cheek is falling over his shoulder.

“Call my dad, okay?” Stiles’s head is buzzing, and no doubt, Megan’s hospital report was not wrong. There is some messed up paranormal mumbo jumbo in whatever supernatural voodoo Daphne used on him. At the moment, Stiles is torn between licking Derek’s neck and going right to sleep.

“Already did.”

“I’m glad you called Cora,” Stiles murmurs. “It’s good to have help.”

“Me, too.” Derek holds him tight.

\- - -

Stiles is in his bed at his aunt’s house. His dad just left, muttering about needing a beer. Derek is sitting in the chair across from him. The way Derek’s legs are spread is giving Stiles thoughts. Though, he is listening to what Derek is saying. Because there is no ice cream present, yet Derek is confessing his feelings.

“I think I want to do security. I like it. I think I’m good at it.”

“You’re insanely good at it. And not just because of the werewolf thing. Do you want to do private stuff or police work?”

“Either.”

“You talk to my dad—?”

“I did. He said it didn’t matter if my degree wasn’t in Criminal Justice. I just needed to pass the exam.”

Stiles can’t help his grin. “Wow, you’ll be all official and in the system.”

“Your dad said I should go to an open house at the downtown PD—see if it has the right feel before I sign up for the exam.”

“They have an open house at the end of the summer in Beacon Hills, too. I know they’re hiring. Um, since Matt’s massacre at the police station, there have been openings…”

“I’m not sure Beacon Hills would readily accept a former murder suspect as a cop.”

“My dad knows you. And you’ve got a good reference from Migratoire. Best LP stats in the nation.”

“Your dad wants you to go home.” Derek looks up at him.

Stiles sucks in his lip, and then he smiles. “He hasn’t tried Mina’s Apple Armadillo flavor. I have a nose for these things. I’ll use ice cream and persuasion.”

Derek sighs, like why should he have expected anything else from Stiles? But then his brows bunch. “Is that a new flavor?”

\- - -

Stiles approaches his father from multiple angles. Besides plying his dad with Apple Armadillo side by side with Caramel Winter, Stiles makes a spreadsheet detailing how much money he has made over the summer, how much more he can make, and how it will last as gas money for a while (assuming no major energy crises). Plus, he should be able to get that new laptop—and he has way more schmancy clothes than he needs. There’s also the couple of sets that he bought for his dad. When his dad protests that he doesn’t need more clothes, Stiles says, “For dates with Melissa.”

It sort of works, but Stiles’s dad is insistent that he cut his hours. And come home every other weekend.

They negotiate. Gas money is always okay. Food is okay. Stiles is not allowed to put his money toward household things. He can put it toward his college. That’s fine.

“I really miss you,” his dad says. “Part of my wanting to yank you home is selfish.”

It is hug time.

But then his dad holds back to add, “Part of it, though, is you dating someone that much older than you.”

“You get that he’s not some manipulative sugar daddy who’s trying to woo away my virtue? Because, like, my virtue is—”

“Stiles, stop talking.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

\- - -

The second week of August, after Derek has passed the entrance exam, Stiles has a long weekend coming up where he’s not going to Beacon Hills to visit his dad. He gets a call from Lydia.

“I’m coming to see you, and I’m using your store discount.”

Stiles scratches his scalp. “There are rules…”

Lydia’s voice is far too knowing. “I already read the policy. Everything you’ll be buying me is a ‘gift.’ But don’t worry, I’ll gift you back in cash, and I’ll buy you lunch too.”

\- - -

In some ways, it’s nice having Lydia around for the weekend. Apparently, she’s decided that she’s done with serious relationships for her senior year. (Sex, yes. Commitment, no. “How many times do I have tell you all that I’m not a nun?”) She reminds him that he needs to do his summer reading (their new AP English professor is obsessed with the Russian greats, so it’s _One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich_ and _The Idiot_ ), and then proceeds to inform him that he’s going to be her lab partner in Biology while encouraging his aunt to order Chirashi from the sushi place three blocks over. She compliments his clothes in her underhanded way. “You look like a hot emo band boy.”

Stiles waggles his finger at her. “There was the word hot in that sentence. I will never forget that.”

Derek shows up an hour after Lydia arrives, and while not outwardly hostile, there’s definitely some wordless communication taking place in the exchange: glare (Derek)—coquettish batting of eyes (Lydia) —sneer (Derek)—pout (Lydia)—teeth gnashing (Derek).

Stiles doesn't really get them. It’s only now occurring to Stiles that they naturally seem to avoid one another. It’s as if Derek senses an alpha female who’s not crazy, and it’s as if Lydia is annoyed that Derek is someone who’s not worth her time to control. Maybe. It’s weird. While Lydia goes through the Migratoire catalogue, circling more or less everything, Derek sits at the kitchen table with Stiles’s aunt, going through Match.com profiles.

“I like that he’s in construction.” Aunt Gwen has her arms crossed as she leans back, sipping at a cup of Eight Treasure Tea.

“If he is, it’s because he’s a lazy manager.” Derek thrusts a finger at the account’s profile picture (which apparently is lacking in apparent musculature), before swiping the mouse and saying, “This one.”

“Ugh, an accountant.”

“He’s an auditor. And he likes white water rafting. Widowed.”

“No one is putting me on an inflatable boat. And I’d rather not live my life in constant comparison to some dead bitch.”

Lydia, of course, takes this moment to peer over both of their shoulders. “Derek is right. That’s a bad picture. That sweater. He’s playing down his looks. I’ll bet he’s hot in person.”

Derek is giving Lydia a glare that says, _Mine_ and _Back away_.

Aunt Gwen looks contemplative. “At least he doesn't have brats. Oh, why not.”

After lunch, Lydia drags both Stiles and Derek to Migratoire and proceeds to spectacularly spend a few hundred dollars (and that’s with Stiles’s discount).

In the fitting room, Lydia is doing a Grace Kelly thing with a scarf when she says, “He’s good for you.”

“Derek?”

Lydia tosses the scarf over the opposite shoulder. “You’re different.”

Stiles wants to ask her, “Different how?” but Derek comes in with a scowl on his face.

“Buy the green dress with the navy blazer. The red skirt is too long. Order the petite size online. Keep the scarf.”

“I want more than that,” Lydia teases.

“No.” Derek marches out.

“You two are so cute,” Lydia tells him seriously.

What?

Okay, and then on Sunday, they’re sitting on the couch with samosas on the table (Aunt Gwen is out on her date), and Lydia inserts herself in the middle so that her curves are pushing into Stiles—and Derek, who’s got wolf eyes simmering just beneath the surface (Stiles can tell).

“I’m bored.” It’s directed at Derek.

“No.”

“What?” Stiles asks.

Lydia is pouting. “But I asked so nicely before.”

“No.”

Lydia does not seem to hear the scary note in Derek’s voice. “I’m a really good screamer. Please?”

And, er, _oh_.

Derek and she are staring each other down, and for a moment Stiles is wondering if Derek is going to bite her or instigate the other thing, but then Derek’s eyes switch to Stiles and they soften. “No.” Then he bodily moves Lydia to the other side of him (away from Stiles) and says, “We’re going to watch _Up_.”

Throwing her head back, Lydia laughs so hard that Stiles has to go and get her a paper bag.

Then all three of them sob while watching the damn stupid she-dies-again movie.

And okay, after Lydia leaves, Derek loses his chill. Normally when they’re doing anything physical, Derek is a bit obsessed with eye contact and being oh-so-very human, but this time he grates his stubble across Stiles’s tongue-slicked ribs. He nips stinging bites into Stiles (the side of his ass, the back of his calf, just below his shoulder blade). After he jerks them both, Derek mixes their slick in his hands and—before Stiles can really stop him—rubs it across Stiles’s stomach.

“You did not just do what you did,” Stiles mutters.

“Mine.” Derek says it with fang tips.

Stiles says, “I need a wash cloth.” And when Derek won’t move, Stiles adds, “I am your person, but not because of this. It’s because I choose to be. Like you choose to be with me. The whole non-co-dependent, non-evil, dare I say healthy mutual affection thing?”

The fang tips disappear. Derek’s gaze is uncertain. “I trust you. Just I—”

“You’re still not a fully formed Poodle Strudel. I get it.”

“Werewolf,” Derek corrects.

“Wolf Walnut, you think? Or Moon Mix. Can’t have chocolate though since canines are—”

He gets a hand over his mouth, and when it pulls away there’s a kiss. Derek says, “I do trust you. With Lydia—even when she said—”

“Hey, I liked her for years. It’s classical conditioning at this point. But I like you now.”

Derek is patiently waiting for Stiles to shut up. Then he continues, “Even when she made it clear,” Derek says, frowning, “you were more worried about me than her.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“It makes it easier to let go. It makes me think I can fix…” Derek waves a hand across his own face.

“Hey,” Stiles complains. “There’s nothing about you to fix.”

“Exactly.” Derek nods. “Trusting you isn’t the problem. It’s trusting...”

And he’s not even going to finish the sentence. But that’s okay. Stiles leans forward, ready to engage in the needed exchange of hugs, except then the gummed up curls at the bottom of his stomach pull painfully.

“Now I’m getting that fucking washcloth,” Stiles declares with mortal resolve.

\- - -

The end of the summer comes too fast. On the second to last day, Stiles is at Derek and Cora’s. He has his cheek resting on Derek’s chest. “So you’ll come visit twice a month?”

Derek presses a kiss into Stiles’s shoulder. “Maybe more often… I like the idea of annoying Scott.”

“Yeah, that’s the reason,” Stiles grumbles.

“And maybe it means I can monitor Lydia. You’ll be busy with school. First semester senior year—those grades matter.”

“And you’ll have your training.”

“If they accept me.”

Stiles turns to fix Derek with a hard look. Between his dad and him, heaven and earth will get moved for Derek to get into the Police Academy. It is going to happen. “Well, and there’s always the chance that something supernatural will raise its spiky head. It is Beacon Hills, after all.”

“I will provide off-site security.”

For that, Stiles nips at Derek’s nipple. Because it is pink and very present.

It’s later, when laughter and Latin music stops wafting up from the happy hour on the street corner, that Derek settles Stiles back on the bed. He pulls off his shorts and scratches both his hands through his hair. It’s not like they haven’t done all the steps leading up to it before, so Stiles shouldn't get nervous. But right now, Stiles is beyond nervous. Because, yeah, they talked about this.

And so this time, Derek doesn't just do one—he does two fingers. He sucks Stiles off as he uses his knuckles to stretch him open, and god, Derek is so absurdly good at sucking Stiles off it’s not funny. Stiles even reviewed “online resources” so he could have a basis for comparison, and yeah, the technique displayed online left him flat out yawning. Maybe it’s Derek’s enthusiasm. He’s not even that noisy, but it’s more like he’s intent with purpose. Derek doesn't even touch himself—he’s too focused on Stiles—but he’s always rock-hard as his shadowed cheeks flex with each tug.

This time, though, Derek’s tongue doesn't stay put on Stiles’s dick. It rolls down to his slick, twisting fingers, and Stiles can’t help but buck his hips. Not only because it’s sensation overload, but also because he still can’t believe Derek really likes doing that. Putting his tongue there. But Derek does. The way his hands holster Stiles’s hips is one indication, and the long groan of pleasure is the other. Stiles cuts a breath when Derek’s tongue tip screws inside and then laps.

When Stiles can’t take it anymore, when he’s close, he says, “Derek, I’m—just—please.”

Derek hands the lube to Stiles, and Stiles smears it down Derek’s blood-rich prick, and as he has since the first time he saw it, Stiles is wondering how the fuck it’s going to fit, but then Derek is coaxing him open with little gasps of, “Stiles,” and “I can’t believe this is happening,” and “look at me.”

The compulsion has gotten worse not better: Derek needs Stiles to look at him.

And right now Derek’s eyes are aquamarine. His chest is painted purple in the darkness, and Stiles is biting his lip from the sudden expansion. It feels like too much—like a massage that goes too deep and pushes on muscles and ligaments that may or may not want pushing. For a second, Stiles thinks he might break. But then Derek is saying, “Relax, Stiles. Relax.” His hands are on the sides of Stiles’s ass and there’s no missing the blackening in Derek’s veins as the tension and stinging just disappear. Because Derek took his pain.

“Fuck. That’s convenient,” Stiles mutters.

Then it’s better. Stiles stops gasping and starts breathing. When Derek nips at his fingers, Stiles even starts laughing. But then Derek’s hands come off his bottom to cup his face, and Stiles realizes finally how deep Derek is, how his cock is all the way up in Stiles, and the pleasure is as rough as the pain, and Stiles likes it. He loves it.

He says some of that. He thinks his mouth is running on its own motor.

Derek is staring at him with a worried expression but Stiles shakes his head with a groan and commands, “Move, you dumbass.”

Derek starts with short juts, and he presses kisses. The strokes get longer—and Stiles sputters when the first jolt of hard pleasure shoots for him. Well, then Derek aims, and he’s jerking Stiles along with each fuck of his hips.

Stiles says, “I hate you,” but his eyes refuse to focus, and Derek only smacks a hand over his mouth as he goes even faster.

Well, then the finish line is in sight. They’re both straining and whining through teeth, when first Stiles spills, and then Derek, hands gripping Stiles by the jaw, grinds out his orgasm right after.

Derek kisses Stiles everywhere, and Stiles says, “So, that was awesome.”

Derek snorts, and then he curls into Stiles, intertwining their legs so they can look at each other. Derek’s mouth is so pink. His dark scruff can be annoying, but right now it also feels fantastic under Stiles’s tongue. And his stupid beautiful eyes are wide wishing wells that Stiles keeps falling into.

Stiles kisses each lid. “You okay?”

“I feel more like myself with you.” Derek says it like it’s a revelation. Like that shouldn't be the case.

Stiles almost teases, _You mean, like an asshole._ But he gets it. He really does. “I love you, too.”

Derek exhales, and it’s like he wants to look away. But he doesn't. His face breaks into a smile. A real, full-mouthed, toothy Derek smile. “Yeah,” he says.

\- - -

At school the next year, Stiles feels different. And people react differently to him. He gets flirted with. People who he thought never knew his name seek out his attention. Yeah, the clothes and hair make a difference and probably the rumor/fact that that he’s dating that “Hot Hale guy, who’s like a criminal” doesn't hurt. Or maybe it’s that Stiles’s winning lacrosse play at the end of last season turns out not to be a fluke, and he’s always first line with Scott. And well, it’s not like Stiles pushes people away, but he’s also mostly not interested in the attention.

On the weekends, Derek comes to visit. He stops by the ice cream shop on the way so he can pick up Insane Plantain and Poodle Strudel. Stiles’s dad insists on lunch, and what was awkward chitchat at first has transitioned to a sort of mentoring, as his dad and Derek swap stories about the Police Academy.

There are still hiccups. Stiles might be pretty damn understanding, but he isn’t an adult. He throws a mini tantrum when Derek shuts him down about prom. In his hurt, Stiles even goes so far as to threaten to go with Lydia, but then Derek says, “It’s a bad memory. The night of my senior prom I—we—in the back seat of Kate’s car. Two days later she set the fire.”

They decide to go dancing somewhere else.

The year has its ups and downs. There’s the weird thing with Allison and Isaac. Scott gets seduced by a fox demon. Cora and Harley have a big falling out before having an equally dramatic reconciliation. Stiles turns in all his college applications, and then he gets the text from his aunt, _So I just got engaged to that damn auditor_.

At the end of the year, Stiles is admitted to UC-Berkeley, which he doesn’t believe until his dad reads the letter aloud for him. Derek is already doing his field assessment in Oakland, so it’s almost too good to be true.

“No, it isn’t,” Derek disagrees with him over the phone.

“A zombie apocalypse is around the corner. I know it.”

“No,” Derek says, “this is the way it’s supposed to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Harley is actually a _Teen Wolf_ character in the original pilot (and other episodes) played by Jamila Thompson. As of the original script, she was supposed to be tight with Stiles and Scott. Her role got downplayed - possibly because because Stiles and Scott having an extra friend would ruin the purity of their friendship - or possibly because black teenagers never seem to last on the damn show. Who knows. But I decided to put her back in with some alternate canon for my own purposes. Also, she was hella fun to write. 
> 
> Um, so I am a big Carl Rogers fan girl. His book _On Becoming a Person_ describes the power of pattern-breaking, corrective relationships as beautifully as I've ever read. It's written for therapists but can apply to any relationship. It was the inspiration for the emotional plot of this story. Thus, that means that Derek's self-destructive relationship 'pattern' in this fic (created by Paige perpetuated by Kate Argent and Jennifer ScaryFace and who knows who else...?) is not going to be fixed "by time and soft loving" (or a damn snap of the fingers) but by backsliding and some nastiness and a good deal of frustration before there is ze trust.
> 
> So, **warnings** \- sex with a woman before the Sterek because Derek has bad patterns. There is very quick (kissing) cheating with a dude--cuz of manipulations by the story's succubus. Some violence. Stiles is 17 and Derek is like (25?) whatever non-legal age Derek is. There is jealousy, possessive behavior. Seduction. Violence. Ouchies. Monster death. Stiles and Derek eventually fuck. I would say there are lots of moments of unhealthy but the arc should be feel-good with oodles of growth and stuff. Also, there is an excessive amount of ice cream in this fic. I feel like I should warn for that. Writing this amount of sugar consumption sort of upset me. LOL.


End file.
